Arranged
by Captain Fantastic
Summary: It's the tale of two people who almost get married but don't, and how they proceed to slaughter the fairy tale norm with adventures including, but not limited to: greedy kings, deserts, ships, dragons, strange cats, and this girl who talks to herself.
1. Prologue

**6/30/12 **

**Author's Note: Hello friends, Captain here. I can't believe it's been over three years since I finished this. Just a quick note if you are planning to read this monstrosity: It was written relatively early in my writing career, and though it improves steadily, I don't consider it a fair example of my current work. I've kept it up, because for some reason the lovely FF readers liked it and were kind enough to leave tons of stellar reviews.  
**

**The long and short of this note is this: Read on at your own risk. If you want to read something more recent, have a look at _What the River Stole_, my current in-progress story.  
**

**Cheers.  
**

* * *

It was an ordinary day in the small town of Dunn's Hill. It was the third day in the Month of the Fox, and the villagers were gathered in the Town Square ready to burn a witch.

They burned witches quite a lot in Dunn's Hill. Ever since the old temple had burned down the summer prior, the local inquisitor had been earning his pay. Old women, young women, local women, foreign women—the inquisitor wasn't choosy. Almost every week he had a new accusation to make. And so almost every week the villagers gathered to burn a witch.

That's why it was an ordinary day.

The crowd of onlookers was thick with murmuring and apprehension. The woman tied to the stake today had been accused before. She'd been sentenced to death before, and had managed to escape. No one knew how, and as far as the inquisitor was concerned, that was just further proof that she was a witch.

The crowd parted, to allow the executioner a path to the platform. The torch in his hand was dancing with greedy flames that seemed to be yearning for the piles of dried brush stacked at the accused woman's feet. As he neared, the young woman began to laugh.

A heavy wave of confusion rippled through the crowd. The torch in the masked executioner's hand fluttered in a breeze, then extinguished suddenly. Gasps, and even a scream or two, erupted throughout the villagers.

The woman—more of a girl, really—at the stake was still laughing.

"You're a darling!" she shouted into the empty air, with gaiety in her tone that was completely uncharacteristic of the damned. The ropes that fettered her, those cruelly tight ropes that the inquisitor himself had tied, fell loose around her feet.

With a graceful, unperturbed air she descended the platform. The breeze swirled around her, catching at her long brown locks and pulling them about her smiling face.

The villagers were in a frenzy.

"No," the girl said simply, once again speaking to empty air. "Leave them be. They only fear what they can't understand."

The crowd dissipated in panic, and through the midst of it the accused walked calmly. She walked down the hill and over the bridge, right out of Dunn's Hill. Her bright eyes followed the direction of the breeze toward the north.

"You jest." She said to her invisible companion, but her smile dissolved. The breeze grew into a steady wind, pushing forcibly at her.

"No!" she shouted unabashedly, stamping her foot. "He'll find me when he's ready; there's no point in rushing the inevitable."

The wind died down.

"See," she said victoriously, "You don't know everything. Now, I'm going home."

She turned on her heel and started south, toward the Great Desert. As she walked, though, she allowed one glance over her shoulder back toward the north. Toward the big castle with the crafty king. Toward the place where she knew, at that moment, events were being set into motion that would shake two kingdoms before they were resolved.

To the small town of Dunn's Hill, it may have seemed like an ordinary day. But the girl they had tried to burn as a witch knew otherwise. Maybe that's why she no longer smiled.


	2. Part one: Hesitation

* * *

"_It has come to my attention that the stability of a kingdom depends solely, completely, and entirely upon the willingness of its citizens to accept everything the king says without any form of hesitation."_

_--__Sovereignty and Bloodlines as a way of Perpetuating Society_

_(A comprehensive set of essays by the economist, Ardenni)_

_**T**_here was to be a wedding in the great country of Asher. It was a marvelous event, because not only would two mortal souls be joined into blissful wedlock, but so would two immortal countries. Asher's neighbor, Silvern, was considerably smaller in size, but still it offered a wide array of resources as a dowry.

Asher's citizens were happy, because soon there would be a trade fair and they could attain all these new and wonderful resources for themselves. Asher's nobility was happy, because new additions to the royal court meant more gossip to be had. Asher's king was immensely pleased with the union, for reasons that he kept to himself.

In fact, there were only five people between the two countries that were directly opposed to the wedding, two of which were the prince and princess destined for the so-called "marital bliss." And the princess especially wasn't keen on keeping said opposition to herself.

"I've never even met him!" cried Saria, loud enough to make her father flinch.

"I know, dearest. That's why I arranged the dinner tomorrow, so you can talk," Cyrus, the king of Asher, said soothingly.

"Wonderful! We'll have just enough time to introduce ourselves before we take our eternal vows," Saria wasn't soothed, and her tone was dripping with sarcasm.

"Nonsense. And don't take that tone with me." Cyrus gave his daughter a sharp glance, then stood to leave the breakfast table. A swarm of servants took the cue, and began clearing plates and opening doors.

Saria opened her mouth to protest further, but found herself shying away from the dangerous expression buried in her father's imposing features. She hated it when he intimidated her. And she hated that he could do it even when he wasn't trying.

"Father, I just--" she started carefully, but not carefully enough.

"No more. Go find Madam Porter and put on a decent gown. You're the princess of the greatest country in the world, at least pretend like you remember that." The king dismissed her with a careless wave, then took the back door from the dining hall that led straight to his private wing of the castle.

An angry tremor ran through Saria, but she just rose from her chair gracefully and headed out of the hall. She seriously doubted that her father had even noticed what she was wearing, or that he would notice if she didn't change. But the whisper mill had probably already churned to the ever-listening ears of Madam Porter, and the woman no doubt had Saria's entire wardrobe retailored by now. Her chief lady-in-waiting held King Cyrus in the highest regard, and the only thing she worried about more than his opinion was whether or not he noticed that she was worried about his opinion.

She broke to the left and stepped out onto a balcony that overlooked the vast lands of Asher's west expanse. She observed the well-traveled dirt road that connected the palace to the rest of the world. The King's Highway, they called it. Or more specifically, her father had called it. The idea of having a road named after him and his lineage pleased him immensely.

Like a snake, the King's Highway slithered over the hills and through the valleys. It stretched until she could no longer see it, and she knew that somewhere along the way, at this very moment, the Crown Prince of Silvern was traveling it.

She hoped he would never arrive. She stared at the bright blue sky and willed it to bring forth a heavy storm. She thought of the ocean to the east, and prayed that it would send a massive wave to swallow them all up. She glared at the fertile Asher soil, and commanded it to erupt in a deadly earthquake.

Anything to stop the spiral her life had taken. She felt so young. And every stitch in her wedding gown was ripping some of that youth away. How dare her father trade her for just a little more prestige in his crown? He never told her why he arranged the marriage, but Madam Porter, in all her motherly wisdom, saw it fit to relate all the gossip from the servant's quarters.

Apparently, Clarissa the serving maid heard from Gus the kitchen boy who heard from Margie the king's seamstress who heard from Lewis the king's manservant who heard from the king's very lips that marrying Saria off to the Prince of Silvern meant that upon the King of Silvern's death, King Cyrus would have claim to one of the world's most mineral-rich countries.

The very idea made Saria furious. Her father was like a small child, trading in a piece of chocolate for the hopes of receiving a bite of cake. She glared into the horizon until her eyes hurt. Still no sign of Royal Banners. Finally she turned and went back indoors. Madam Porter would want her to change gowns at least five times before the prince arrived. Of that, Saria was certain.

* * *

"You've never even met her," the princess of Silvern gave her brother a pointed glance, before pausing to lean down and readjust her stirrups. The servants never managed to fit them correctly, but they were on strict orders from her father not to let her saddle her own horse. Apparently that would show weakness to the Asher nobility, even though she didn't see any Asher nobility around. But then, her father rarely weighed his decisions. He just made them.

Her brother insisted she was just like the man in that aspect, something that never ceased to infuriate her.

"Father assures me that she's a wonderful girl," her brother Drake said slowly, not looking her way.

"Oh, well, if Father says so--" her voice was heavy with sarcasm, and Drake interrupted her before she could finish.

"Ravyn, you're not helping."

"Let's run away," she said suddenly and excitedly, glancing around them. The servants and advisors were a respectful distance behind.

"What are you talking about?" Drake asked irritably, looking up at her.

"They'd never catch us. We could head south, to the Great Desert! Or north, to the--"

"That's stupid, Rae. Quit being childish," he snapped.

Ravyn frowned at his tone.

"You shouldn't have to marry someone you've never seen before."

"Why? Because no one ever has to in those fairy tales you read?"

"Marriage is about love!"

"Marriage is about union," Drake corrected firmly, sounding exactly like his father, though Ravyn could never bear to tell him. "And with Royal blood, it is important to make that union as beneficial to--"

"Oh, quit quoting your silly economic books, Drake," Ravyn said crossly. She hated those books. All about policies, social productivity, and sovereign rights—written by old men with long beards who had never so much as seen sunlight.

"I'm telling you what it's really like, Ravyn. Something you'd find out if you would ever pull your head out of fantasies."

"I just want you to be happy, Drake!" She couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed, or the last time his smile had been anything but fake. She missed her big brother, who had helped her climb her first tree when he was nine and she was six, who had showed her how to pull a fish from the icy stream with her bare hands, and how to ride a horse bareback, and sneak into the kitchens without being caught.

She missed the way his boyish smile made all the nobles' daughters swoon, and how his smile widened when she did something crazy. Like at the annual royal ball when he was fourteen and she loosed a rat into the middle of the dance floor where he was suffering with a particularly horrible noble girl.

He used to tousle her hair and tell her she was growing up right, despite the long lectures she had to endure from their father for her "impertinence." He used to make jokes and roll his eyes and argue back with their father. He used to be a kid.

Now he was all about stable living environments and perpetuating society and other horrid things that their father had a bearded old tutor instill into him. He didn't even climb trees anymore.

"I'll be happy when Silvern's future is secured. That's my duty."

Ravyn made a face. She hated that word, 'duty.' It was a terrible, terrible thing. It was the very thing that made her father such a hard, calculating man, and the thing that stole away her brother.

A part of her wished she could accept her brother's fate in the same way he had, as a matter of necessity. A service the great country of Silvern. But she couldn't. While her brother was being taught the unyielding life of a prince, she had grown accustomed to a wild and untamable freedom. The kind of freedom that she could find in the birds of the skies and the animals of the fields. That freedom that treasured true happiness above all else.

She lived for nothing else, just as Drake only lived for Silvern.

Ravyn stole at glance at his silent features. He looked much, much older than his nineteen years. Their father's cold, solemn air had already begun to settle into his face. Ravyn wanted to scream. She didn't want her brother to become king if this was what it meant for him.

She looked to the wide blue sky, where the birds flew gracefully in their eternal freedom, and wished for the hundredth time that day that she and her brother could just fly away.

* * *

"Quit fidgeting, your highness," Madam Porter hissed between her large teeth, which were bared in a perfect smile. Saria thought that she looked like a wolf when she bared her teeth as such. Or a dragon.

"I'm not fidgeting," she answered back politely, and surreptitiously fidgeted to the left until there was a few feet between her and her overbearing chief lady-in-waiting.

They were all standing in a picture-perfect row in the courtyard. To Saria's left were the Royal Advisors, all of them old and gray with watery eyes and shaky grins. To her right were all of her ladies-in-waiting, dressed in outrageously glorious attire and the most outrageous of all was Madam Porter herself, who most definitely looked like a dragon in her glittering green gown and large black headdress.

King Cyrus was nowhere to be found; though Saria secretly supposed he had dozed off after lunch. She wished she could have been so lucky. She had spent her whole morning and afternoon in Madam Porter's clutches. After parading her through her entire wardrobe twice, Madam Porter had finally squeezed her into a particularly ridiculous pink gown and pronounced her presentable.

The trumpeters were sounding, the banners were being raised, and the gates were slowly creaking open. Saria felt her stomach turn a somersault three times in a row. On the other side of the gates was her future husband.

Husband. How she hated the word. She was too young for a husband, though her father disagreed. "Sixteen?" he would bellow, "All respectable young ladies are wed by sixteen!"

And it was true. In Asher "respectable young ladies" were expected to be wed as soon as they were fit to bear children. But Saria didn't want to be respectable. And she didn't want to bear children.

Unfortunately for her, no one cared what the Princess of Asher wanted, so long as she married the Crown Prince of Silvern and pretended to be happy about it.

Horses' hooves echoed across the pristine cobblestones, audible even over the loud trumpets. Saria couldn't make herself look up and meet the eyes of the prince; instead she kept her gaze directly forward, which also happened to be on his knees.

Why did she have to be here? Why did this have to be happening to her?

Madam Porter was gushing beside her. And Saria felt her cheeks flush pink from nervousness despite herself.

Then the prince dismounted, and her gaze on his knees moved up to his chin. It was a strong chin, and she couldn't help but look up further into his eyes. They were green; that was the first thing she noticed. The second thing she noticed was that he looked tired.

The trumpeter announced Prince Drake Richard Bartholomew, Royal Heir of Silvern.

Saria held out her hand, the way that Madam Porter had been teaching her ever since she could walk. The prince took it and leaned over, Saria noticed the split second of hesitation before he pressed his lips to her knuckles.

"Your highness, it's a pleasure, " he said smoothly, catching her eye.

Saria wondered if he'd been practicing that as long as she'd been practicing her reply.

"The pleasure is all mine, milord," she answered dutifully, dropping into a curtsy. She didn't give him her best curtsy, because she knew that would irk Madam Porter. Drake didn't seem to notice. She wondered if he even noticed the thirteen tiny white flowers that Madam Porter had spent an hour weaving into her golden hair, all the while insisting that the prince would "be positively stricken by her."

Prince Drake didn't look stricken, positively or otherwise. He just looked drained. She imagined that she would be tired too, if she had just traveled thousands of miles to marry someone she'd never met before. But then, maybe he was excited about the match. Saria had heard that some countries delight in arranging marriages.

Arranged marriages were unheard of in Asher; that is, until her father had his brilliant idea. She wondered if the citizens of Silvern were rejoicing like those of Asher. It was easy to rejoice if you weren't the one vowing your life away, she supposed.

"Shall we head indoors, out of the sun?" Perry, her father's closest advisor said into the awkward silence that followed. Saria resisted the urge to give an unladylike shrug to the suggestion, and instead looked at Drake.

The prince didn't seem to have an opinion one way or another; he just nodded, stepped forward, and offered his arm to Saria.

"Allow me to escort you, milady," he said, sounding as if he were reciting something he'd memorized long ago.

Saria tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and made a point to ignore Madam Porter. The woman was silently prattling so enthusiastically that any moment now she was sure to burst right out of her whalebone corset. As if the prince offering his arm meant he and Saria were destined to be together or something. Madam Porter was a gushing fool, Saria decided for the eightieth time that day.

Once inside the main hall, the large retinue was forced to stop their progress, because King Cyrus had decided to grace the newcomers with his presence and was waltzing down the grand staircase with his arms behind his back and a huge smile on his face.

As the king stopped in front of them, Drake dropped Saria's arm and swept a bow. Saria grimaced inwardly, because that meant she had to curtsy, even though she had stopped curtsying to her father the second she was able to withstand Madam Porter's withering looks.

"King Cyrus, I bring much honor from the court of Silvern," Drake said evenly.

The king looked disconcerted for a moment, before guffawing loudly and slapping the prince so hard on the shoulder that Saria winced.

"Well, I'll take it, boy," he announced.

Saria felt her cheeks flame at her father's crass manner. Everyone knew that the customary greeting of Silvern royalty was supposed to be returned with "And much honor to you and your kin." Everyone present, even Madam Porter, squirmed a bit with embarrassment at the brazen disrespect their king had, even unintentionally.

Saria sneaked a glance over at the prince. He looked utterly unmoved by the king's manners, or lack thereof. He just exchanged a brief glance with the young woman who hadn't left his side then let loose a long breath. Saria wondered if the girl was his sister the princess. It had to be, she looked just like him, with the same dark hair and pale skin that were common in those from the western country of Silvern.

Her eyes were the same, as well. A cool sea-foam green, though hers weren't as tired. No, hers were bright with a spark of youth and laughter. Saria had a feeling that they might get along. She wished she had the same feeling about Drake. He hadn't so much as smiled since he arrived.

What if he was the serious type who couldn't even speak without spending a few minutes meditating on what he had to say?

Saria shuddered inwardly at the thought.

"And where's your father, boy?" Cyrus asked, looking around with just enough of a frown to let everyone know that he didn't appreciate showing his face if the King of Silvern wasn't going to do the same.

"He's just behind, sire. Some court matters held him up, but he assures me he'll arrive before the…before tomorrow," Drake said politely, very carefully shying away from the word "wedding."

"Pity," Cyrus said, his frown deepening, "I hoped to discuss some of the finer details of the…err…arrangement with him before supper."

"What details, father?" Saria asked with false sweetness. She knew what he was referring to. He wanted to know exactly what his resources would be so he could snatch them up the second he passed her off. She wanted to know what he had to say for himself, though.

"Nothing for you to fret your pretty little head about, dearest," Cyrus said to her with a pointed look.

"Are you referring to all the gold and silver and spices that you're lusting after so much you can't wait to throw your only daughter to the wolves?" She kept the sweet tone, but her words were dagger-sharp.

Simultaneous gasps erupted around her, Madam Porter being the loudest. Saria felt the prince tense beside her, but she didn't care.

King Cyrus glared for a few moments in silence, and Saria knew he was deciding her fate. But she realized something groundbreaking—he was already punishing her in the worst way possible. What else could he do to her?

"I think I'll skip dinner, if it's all the same to those present," she said with the cool confidence her new revelation lent her. She swept her finest curtsy to the prince, just to show everyone that she could be a proud and powerful princess if she so desired. She was pleased to see that his features were curved into a look of surprise, was that a hint of a smile? His sister was wearing an obvious smile, one that glittered with the brightness of youth.

Saria almost wished she had learned her name, but then she decided it didn't matter anyway. And with that she gathered up her pink monstrosity of a skirt and waltzed past her silently furious father and up the grand marble staircase.

There would be a fine price to pay for her impertinence, from Madam Porter and her father. But at that moment, Princess Saria of Asher couldn't care less.

* * *


	3. Alliances

* * *

"_There are no mere rivals in the ranks of Royalty; there are enemies. And there are no friendships. There are alliances."_

_--__Sovereignty and Bloodlines as a way of Perpetuating Society_

When she reached the top of the stairs and was certain that no one could see her, Saria broke into a run. She didn't know why she cared if anyone saw her. She wasn't even sure where she was running to, or who she was running from. She just twisted and turned her way through the familiar corridors until she had managed to get herself completely lost.

And when she was quite sure that she would never find her way again, Saria let out a relieved sigh and then began to cry. She ran and she sobbed, leaving behind a trail of tears on the plush carpet.

She might have kept running forever, but she turned a corner and ran straight into somebody.

"S-sorry," she managed to gasp out through her tears, and looked up to see who she had embarrassed herself in front of this time.

"Jackson!" she cried when she realized who it was, then threw her arms around her older brother in a fierce embrace.

"Whoa. What's wrong, Saria?" he asked weakly into her hair. He always sounded weak, ever since he had been ill with the Black Scourge during his twelfth summer. According to the doctors, it was only because of his boyish determination that he pulled through, and they never expected him to make a full recovery. Saria always expected him to, though it had been six years and he still hadn't. She still said a prayer to the Blessed One every night for him.

"How can you ask that?" she demanded through her tears, stepping back.

"Oh…" he sounded pained. Though, he always sounded pained, due to the deterioration of the bones that the Scourge had left him with. "Saria, I really meant to be there for you. But the doctor's were worried this morning, and I--" He started coughing, so roughly that Saria's own throat began to hurt.

"There wasn't much to see," she said, grabbing his hand. "I'm glad you rested instead."

"I'll be at dinner tonight," he promised hoarsely.

"I'm not going to dinner," Saria said flippantly.

"Come on, Saria. I want to meet this Prince Drake everyone's so thrilled about." He smiled, showing off the boyish mischief she loved about him.

Saria made a face and Jackson laughed.

"That bad?" he asked.

Saria just shrugged.

"I don't know," she answered. She liked being able to shrug without worrying about Madam Porter swatting her on the arm, so she shrugged again.

"He's not very talkative."

"And I'm sure you were the light of the conversation?" Jackson teased. Saria hated talking to new people.

"I didn't stay long," Saria countered, and Jackson raised an eyebrow at her.

"Saria…you didn't!"

She just grinned.

Jackson rolled his eyes heavenward.

"I swear, with all the nobles you've run away from, it's a wonder someone hasn't fallen in love with the back of your head."

"Well, why not?" Saria tossed her hair primly. "I have precisely thirteen little flowers that a servant wasted a day picking for them to fall in love with."

Jackson laughed at that, and even though it turned into a cough Saria was glad she had amused him. Her brother always made her smile, and she enjoyed returning the favor. It made her feel better to see him happy. But not for long.

"Jackson," she said mournfully, "I wish you could hurry up and become king so I wouldn't have to do this."

Jackson immediately sobered.

"Saria," he chided gently, "You're old enough to know that--"

"Don't say it!" Saria interrupted firmly. "Just don't."

No one expected him to live past twenty-one. That was part of the reason, aside from his insatiable greed, that her father had arranged her marriage. There was a law in Asher, as old as time itself, that a princess could not be named heir unless she was married. In this way, Asher would always have a king.

King Cyrus needed an heir, and Saria was his last child if Jackson passed.

If Jackson passed, Saria would tell herself bitterly, only if. He wasn't dead. He was getting stronger every day. The Blessed would listen to her prayers.

But she was the only one who thought so.

Jackson pulled her into a tight hug again.

"I'll see you at dinner tonight," he said firmly. "Now go spend some time for yourself, I hear the Paint Parade coming."

"Paint Parade" was his pet name for Saria's entourage of ladies, due to the unworldly amount of rouge and charcoal they pasted onto their faces every day.

Saria nodded miserably and took off down the hallway in the direction she had been headed, which was towards nowhere in particular. As she ran, she could hear Jackson swearing to Madam Porter that he hadn't seen head nor tail of his "rambunctious little sister."

Saria smiled. Jackson could always convince Madam Porter of anything, it was his innocent smile under his golden head of hair. And his sea-blue eyes probably didn't hurt either.

Saria had always been jealous of his eyes. They were their mother's, always kind and gentle. Ever since her mother's death when Saria was six, she had looked to Jackson to remember the woman. Something about those eyes never ceased to comfort her.

Her own eyes were brown, like her father's. She shared everything with her father, from his straight golden hair to his chocolate brown eyes to his round nose. She hated everything he'd given her, only because she hated seeing him when she looked into the mirror. She always yearned for the sharp, smooth features of her mother. The features that were softened in Jackson's face.

Once she had meandered through the corridors enough to finish a complete circuit, Saria slowed to walk, satisfied that she had sufficiently shaken any of the Paint Parade that might be rushing after her. She passed the tall double doors of the library without stopping, but a few steps past them she slowed. Perhaps she could find solace in the massive, quiet library.

Saria disliked reading. It hurt her eyes and always gave her a headache. Therefore, she reasoned, the library would be the last place Madam Porter would look for her.

Madam Porter hated literature more than Saria did. "What a horrid waste of paper!" she would crow. "All the parchment used up by those silly histories could have been put to much better use!" The woman was a firm believer in constant correspondence with the kingdom's nobility. She made Saria write at least fifty letters a week, insisting that a princess should always show concern for those beneath her.

All that resulted from the lengthy correspondences was a deep-seated resentment in Saria's heart for penmanship of any sort. It's not like any of the nobles ever wrote back, anyway.

Cautiously, Saria pulled one of the doors open a few inches. She poked her nose in and peered around, as if expecting a phantom to jump out at any moment.

The library was silent, but bright; it was illuminated by sunlight streaming through bay windows that lined almost every wall. Saria entered the room and pushed the door shut behind her. She held her breath in amazement at the sheer vastness of it all. There were so many rows of shelves, she was quite certain that it would take hours to walk between them all.

And the books! Madam Porter would be very sour at the amount of paper consumed by the stacks and stacks of volumes. Saria walked to the nearest shelf and ran her hand across the bindings. Despite the thick layer of dust, she could see histories, philosophies, ballads, and so much more.

She wondered why her father wasted space with them, since it was obvious by the dust that no one ever read them. But then, this was only one row out of many. And Saria wasn't about to go check each one to see if it had been accessed recently.

In her awe, she had almost forgotten the point of this endeavor. With newfound resolve, she navigated through the shelves to find a comfortable place to wait out Madam Porter's search parties. As she stepped out from behind a shelf, a loud snore nearly made her heart jump out through her throat.

She whirled on her heel and searched the area wildly until she spotted the source. Behind a large, cluttered desk, a shriveled old man was sleeping very soundly. One hand rested on a stack of books to his left, as if he had been reaching for a text the very second he dozed off. The other hand was sprawled across the messy desktop; in it was clutched a writing quill that had run dry long ago. His face was planted very neatly onto an open book, where his nose fit quite nicely into the crack of the binding.

Saria bit back a giggle. As if sensing he had a spectator, the old librarian jerked awake, mumbling about philosophy in the ancient times. He stared at Saria for a few seconds, then blinked. His eyes were surprisingly wide and clear, inset in a face more wrinkled than a prune.

"Why, Why, oh my, oh my…Queen Evelyn is that you?" he asked bewilderedly.

Saria started a bit at her mother's name.

"N-no…" she said awkwardly, having a hard time finding her voice. "I'm Saria."

"Of course!" he said immediately. "Forgive me, but you know I never see you. You never come, never come, never come." He shook his head three times then stood up and dusted himself off. Saria was quite certain he housed more dust than all the bookshelves in the library.

"You thought I was my mother," she said, confused and curious why he had.

"Silly of me," he said, rolling his wrinkled lips into a smile. "You don't look a thing like her, not a thing. But I can see her curiosity in your eyes." He moved around from behind the desk and stood in front of Saria. He wasn't an inch taller than her, and for a few full seconds he looked her in the eyes.

"Definitely," he said finally, nodding ferociously. "The same curiosity. The same, the same, the same!" He sounded giddy at that, and Saria half expected him to dance a little jig. Instead he suddenly looked forlorn.

"Pity, she had to pass," he said. "Pity, pity, pity. That was the truest lady I ever met in my long and blessed life."

Saria smiled sadly. She felt strangely connected to this funny little man who repeated himself profusely. He had known her mother.

"What's your--" Saria started.

"Cadmus," he said with his quirky, wizened grin. "That's my name, Miss Curious."

His grin was infectious.

"Nice to meet you, Cadmus," Saria said, then remembered what she was doing in the library. "I'm just going to sit down somewhere and rest. Please, if someone comes for me, don't--"

Cadmus chuckled.

"I'm not here, Cadmus," he said, mimicking a female voice. "That's what your mother would say—'I'm not here, even if the king himself comes calling!' And I'd say back to her, 'Miss Queen, I can keep a secret. I can, I can, I can."

Saria looked at him for a second, then giggled.

"Thank you, Cadmus," she said, and scurried off. It was a pleasant thought, that she reminded someone of her mother. Even if it was just the funny old librarian who was going soft in the head.

She found solace in the cushioned window seat that was built into one of the windows at the very back of the library. The glass was covered in year's worth of grime and dust, but after she scrubbed at it with the hem of her gown, she managed to clear off a small circle so she could see outdoors. The result was a brown spot on the underside of her pink hem, and a lovely view of the bronze foliage of a dying oak.

Saria sighed and pulled her knees up to her chest under the skirts. She pushed herself into the corner of the window seat, and wished that the glass would suck her into its filthy surface so she could stay in the peaceful library forever.

* * *

Drake and Ravyn watched silently as Princess Saria's chief lady-in-waiting scurried down the grand staircase as gracefully as she could manage in the green monstrosity of a gown that she was wearing. Her feathery, bejeweled headdress was slightly askew, as was her blonde wig, Ravyn noted as she caught a glimpse of the graying hair that was tightly slicked against the woman's head.

The frivolity of Asherian fashion was a source of sheer amazement to Ravyn. There were feathers, jewels, embroidery, and yards of silk and velvet. And that was just one dress. On the king, Ravyn counted twelve rubies sewn into his doublet, and though it was dribbled with something resembling gravy, the richness of the fine crushed velvet was not depreciated.

In Silvern, most women only wore gowns on special occasions. Fashions were simplistic, with warm, soft colors. The puffy sleeves, dozens of petticoats, and flashy colors here in Asher were unbelievable.

The lady-in-waiting was whispering in the king's ear, the feathers on her head bobbing with every word. The king's face turned red enough to match his twelve rubies. He muttered a curse, and then stormed off without so much as glancing apologetically in Drake and Ravyn's direction.

The lady-in-waiting shook her head profusely, and scurried off in the opposite direction, no doubt continuing her search for the kingdom's wayward royal. The remaining retinue of ladies and wrinkled old advisors all scuffled their feet uncertainly for a few seconds, then one by one they found an excuse to leave.

Ravyn glanced over at Drake, who glanced back at her with a raised eyebrow. It seemed everyone had conveniently forgotten about the two foreign royals and their small retainer of attendants.

"Now what?" Ravyn whispered.

Drake just shrugged.

The next few seconds after that were exceedingly awkward.

"Your highnesses!" Perry, King Cyrus's chief advisor, darted into the main hall from an obscure door to their left. Both Ravyn and Drake relaxed considerably. They had come to know Perry well, since he was Cyrus's liaison to the Silvern court. He was the one who had sat late with them after dinners, regaling tales of the Asher court in an attempt to satisfy the curiosities that plagued their minds.

"Terribly sorry about all this. The Princess is just ill at ease," Perry said breathlessly.

"Wonder why," Ravyn muttered dryly.

Drake elbowed her, warning her to hush.

"It's fine, Perry." Secretly, Drake couldn't blame her. He'd had the same notion several times that day. But running away was simply out of the question. King Richard of Silvern had made it abundantly clear to his only son that this union was Silvern's only chance at survival.

The sad truth was that Silvern was failing, and fast. The Royal storehouses were emptying more every season, and the land no longer gave forth the minerals that its citizens, and King, depended on. In addition, the rebels to the South were posing more and more of a threat every month.

Fortunately, very few people knew of Silvern's troubles and King Cyrus was not one of them.

After hours of counsel with his advisors, Richard had gathered together all the glittering riches he could and sent it to Asher as a goodwill offering. As was expected, Cyrus had taken the bait. His greed and imagination were captured by the raw, dazzling beauty of Silvernian gold and silver.

It wasn't long after that when Perry had arrived in Silvern with gifts from Cyrus, as well as the suggestion of an alliance between the two countries. Such a merger would no doubt be an "exceptional union of mutual benefit to both parties." Those were Perry's words, straight from King Cyrus's mouth. And they were merely a fancy way of saying that King Cyrus couldn't wait to fill his coffer with Silvern's riches.

Richard was more than willing to allow Cyrus to believe that his coffer would benefit from a marriage between Princess Saria and Prince Drake. Asher's half of the bargain meant that Silvern would receive ample support, both economical and military.

All Cyrus cared about was more riches. All Richard cared about was perpetuating his existence.

And all Drake cared about was Silvern.

So the deal had been struck.

"You two must be tired. Perhaps some rest is in order before dinner?" Perry probed, trying to make up for his King's rude manners. Drake shook his head.

"You said there was a library?" he inquired, causing Ravyn to roll her eyes.

"Yes! Yes, of course. The largest in the land," Perry assured, ecstatic to be of service. "This way." The advisor gestured for them to follow him up the grand stairs.

Drake waved off the entourage of his father's attendants, who were more than happy to scurry away and find something more interesting to do. And Drake was more than happy to be rid of the eavesdroppers that were charged with keeping King Richard up to date on everything.

"Well, this is going to be a riveting afternoon," Ravyn muttered sarcastically.

"You're welcome to find something else to amuse yourself with," Drake answered with a slight smirk. Ravyn just made a face. The most amusing thing she'd found so far in this giant golden prison were the polished banisters that looked to be perfect for sliding. But she doubted that stair rail riding would be looked upon as acceptable behavior. She'd probably slide right into the clutches of that lady-in-waiting, who looked like a dragon ready to breathe fire on unladylike behavior of any sort.

"You aren't getting rid of me that easily, Drake."

* * *

The library was so peaceful that Saria found it hard to stay awake. In fact, she was in the realm between alertness and sleep when the resounding creak of the large library doors pervaded her ears. She breathed in the musty scent of the library's atmosphere, still not coming awake. It was when she heard voices that the terrible realization occurred to her.

Someone was here. That jolted her awake so suddenly that she tumbled right out of the window seat. She struggled in a losing fight against the pink yards of fabric that were tangled in her legs. Finally she lay still, praying that whoever was here wasn't looking for her.

The muffled voices paused for a second. Under the rows and rows of bookshelves, Saria could catch a glimpse of the shadows of feet. She held her breath, and finally the voices started up again.

As quietly as she could manage, Saria pulled herself off the floor and began tiptoeing between shelves toward the front. She couldn't help it; her curiosity demanded that she find out who was here.

She stopped when there was one shelf between her and Cadmus's desk, where the voices seemed to be concentrated. She peeked between the books on the shelf. In front of his desk, shaking with laughter, was Cadmus. And the person he was talking to was none other than Prince Drake himself.

She wondered what Drake had said to make Cadmus laugh.

"Hello," A cheerful voice directly behind her nearly made Saria jump from her skin. She spun around, clutching her heart and feeling like a small child who'd been caught eavesdropping. Which wasn't far from the truth.

The princess of Silvern's green eyes were laughing back at her.

"Oh…hello…I, umm…I was," Saria had no idea what to say. She'd been caught red-handed, and she doubted that spying from behind a bookshelf would be considered acceptable behavior in any respect.

"Don't worry," the princess winked, "Your secret's safe with me."

Saria relaxed, and for a split second had the notion that perhaps she might remain undiscovered after all. But it wasn't meant to be. At that moment, Cadmus rounded the corner and stepped into the aisle, with Drake right behind him.

They were discussing where a certain book was, but the conversation cut short when they caught sight of Saria.

Saria blushed.

Cadmus was shaking his wrinkled head and his bright eyes were glittering with silent laughter. Saria gathered up enough nerve to look Prince Drake in the eye. His eyebrows were cocked slightly, and there was something resembling an amused smile slipping onto his features.

Ravyn bit back a giggle. The library had suddenly become much more interesting.

"I…was…" Saria floundered for a second, then reached out and snatched the first book her fingers touched. "Just looking for a book." Her cheeks were on fire by now, and she was perfectly aware of how transparent her ridiculous excuse was.

The immediate cloud of dust that exploded from the removal of the book from its resting-place of many years caused all four of them to sneeze.

"Tariffs and Reforms for Monarchical Hegemony?" Drake asked politely, somehow managing to suppress his amusement as he read the binding.

Saria tried not to wince. She didn't even know what 'hegemony' meant.

"Of course," she said finally, pretending like the dusty cover of the book was the most interesting thing she'd seen all day. "One can never be too prepared for…for…"

"Monarchical hegemony?" Ravyn offered helpfully.

Cadmus was shaking visibly with laughter now.

Even Drake was smiling. Saria felt relieved that he at least knew how.

"Well, what are you doing here?" she asked defensively, in an attempt to direct the attention away from her and her burning cheeks.

"Coincidentally, I was looking for a book as well," Drake scanned the shelf for a second, then pulled a book off.

Saria was the only one who sneezed this time.

"You like to read?" she asked weakly, but immediately could have smacked herself. Of course he liked reading, why else would he be in the library?

Ravyn was snickering quietly beside her.

"Almost as much as he likes breathing," she said with a smirk, soliciting a hard glance from her brother.

"Well, one can never be too prepared," he said, softening. Cadmus and Ravyn both laughed. Even Saria couldn't help but offer an embarrassed smile, though she really wanted nothing more than to escape and recuperate.

Cadmus grabbed her hand in his wrinkled palm and patted it.

"It is good to laugh, Miss Princess. Good, good, good. Especially at ourselves." He nodded several times at her, as if making sure his random spout of wisdom was soaking in. Then he tottered off, still nodding to himself.

"At least there's someone normal here," Ravyn said, after Cadmus had vanished around the corner. All three laughed again; the thought of Cadmus being the only normal person in the castle was an amusing one, even though Saria couldn't help but think that it wasn't far from the truth.

For a brief moment, Saria felt comfortable. Ravyn and Drake weren't very different from her. They were like a breath of fresh air compared to the normal routine of her life. Ravyn looked to be around her age, and for all his civil manners and aged demeanor, Drake himself was probably around Jackson's age.

These were the type of people she might like to be friends with.

Then she remembered she wasn't just expected to be friends with Drake. She was supposed to marry him. Tomorrow.

The thought was overwhelming, and suddenly Saria felt suffocated.

Saria looked down at the floor for a few seconds, then mumbled something incoherent that resembled an excuse for leaving. She slid the book she held in her hands back into its place on the shelf and hurried off, not even dropping a curtsy to excuse her rude manners.

For a few seconds, Drake and Ravyn stared blankly at the empty spot where she had been standing moments earlier.

"Do you think atrocious manners is just something the Asherian Royalty passes down?" Ravyn asked finally.

Drake shook his head at her.

"You shouldn't talk about them that way, Ravyn," he chided. The Asherian Royalty was saving Silvern, albeit unwittingly.

"No, really," she pressed, with her doggedly youthful mettle. "Father gives you his signet ring, I get the Crown Jewels. Maybe Asher's king passes down the ability to offend any visitor at any time."

Drake suppressed a smile.

"You certainly get offended easily."

"I'm not offended," Ravyn amended quickly.

"Well, neither am I."

Ravyn laughed a little.

"I guess they got lucky then, didn't they?"

"I guess so."

* * *

Dear Readers,

Sorry I'm slow.

God bless,

Captain


	4. Sacrifice

"_It is the duty of royalty to sacrifice all else for the sake of the kingdom. There is no bliss, amusement, or peaceful moment in the life of a royal, unless it is a bliss, amusement, or peaceful moment that is shared with the country as a whole."_

_-The Duties, Responsibilities, and Expectations of Royalty_

Saria decided to attend dinner that night, but not because she wanted to. And not because she felt obliged. She just didn't want Jackson to feel left out.

Turns out she needn't have worried.

Precisely two minutes after the first course was served, Jackson and Drake launched into an intelligent sounding, but altogether boring conversation about the role of the monarchy in perpetuating society. Or something like that.

Jackson found politics interesting. He was a king at heart, and had nothing else to do but read long, informative books about being one during his weeks of bed rest. Saria knew how much he wished their father would allow him to at least sit in on an advisory meeting. But Cyrus wasn't sure how to deal with his sickly son, so he hid him away from the world. Not exactly a benevolent approach, but that was King Cyrus.

Saria still remembered a night almost a year ago, when she and Jackson were walking through the gardens. They happened past a balcony from one of the rooms in Cyrus's private wing of the castle. The king's booming voice resonated in the empty night air. He was telling one of his advisors that Jackson was worthless now that he was practically an invalid. Nothing but a burden.

Those were the words he used to describe his son, "worthless" and "a burden."

Saria knew Jackson heard him. But he pretended he hadn't. They never spoke of it.

That was the night she stopped loving her father.

Right now, immersed in a conversation about monarchical society, Jackson looked very content, happy even. It made Saria a bit jealous. Jackson always wanted to talk to her about those sorts of things, but she had never been a very worthy discussion partner. She just didn't care about politics.

And now Drake was here, a seeming expert on everything Jackson could ever want to talk about, and Saria was feeling left out. She knew she was being childish. She didn't care.

Directly across from her, Ravyn was in a very animated discussion with a couple of Cyrus's wrinkled old advisors.

"The Forbidden East is forbidden for a reason, young lady," Wharton, one of the eldest, said firmly.

"Only because everyone is afraid of what's there," Ravyn interjected. "Imagine what we could find if we just looked!" Her eyes were glistening with a faraway glint.

"What do you think is there?" Saria asked her, receiving some disapproving glances from the advisors. That only fueled her curiosity. Saria had heard many tales of the lands to the Forbidden East, tales of enchantment and mystery. But no one really knew for sure what lay to the East.

Ravyn shrugged.

"Other cultures perhaps. Cultures who have discovered things we don't understand."

"Magic?" Saria asked, a bit breathless. Many people believed that long ago the Blessed One breathed some of His infinite power into the earth, power that could be controlled by humans who were diligent enough to harness it. Such talk was frowned upon in the circles of nobility. It put a damper on progress, according to the king.

Ravyn smiled and opened her mouth, but Wharton cut in.

"Fairy tales, your majesty," he said to Saria with a toothless grin, "Are a bunch of hosh-posh. You shouldn't bother your little head about them."

Saria ignored him, and looked at Ravyn.

"You think someone should go to the Forbidden East?"

"Why not? There's no harm in expanding horizons."

"But how could anyone go there? The Blessed One established the Great Divide." The Divide was a massive canyon miles across that supposedly stretched to the ends of the earth. It was impassable.

Ravyn's excitement seemed a bit quelled at that question, much to the relief of the advisors. But it turned out Prince Drake had the answer.

"There's a bridge," he said to Saria, temporarily pausing his conversation with Jackson. Saria wondered how he managed to hear both conversations at once.

"How could anyone build a bridge across the Divide?" Wharton scoffed. But Drake didn't seem ruffled.

"It's a natural bridge," he said calmly. "Formed by nature at the same time the canyon was."

"The Blessed formed the Divide," Saria said. "Thousands of years ago, so that no one would cross into the Forbidden East. Why would He create a bridge?"

Drake seemed slightly amused, but he hid it well.

"The canyon was formed by a river, your highness. Not your proverbial 'Blessed One.'"

Saria steamed a bit at that remark. The Blessed One was the traditional deity of Asher, knowledge of Him had been passed down through every generation since time began. He was the source of all wisdom and power. How dare this foreigner just waltz in and brush Him so casually aside?

"How exactly does a river form a canyon that large?" she asked deridingly. What a foolish concept.

"The rushing water carved away at the rock over many years."

"Well, how do you know there's a bridge?" she pressed, not wanting him to have the last word.

"I've read about it," he said simply, as if that was the obvious answer, then he picked up his conversation with Jackson right where they left off.

Saria sniffed. It figured he would have only read about it. She wondered if he ever even left his castle in Silvern. He probably wouldn't know there was a sun in the sky if one of his books didn't say so.

She knew she was being unfairly vindictive. Just because he didn't believe what she believed didn't make him a bad person. But she wanted someone to be sore at, and Drake was the most readily available person. Besides, how could they be husband and wife if they didn't believe the same thing? Wasn't that important?

The thought of being a wife made her sick to her stomach, but she didn't want to call attention to herself by asking to be excused. So she just fiddled with her napkin in her lap and remained silent as a mute throughout the rest of the courses.

Conversations down the table continued long after the last course had been finished. Not because anyone at the table particularly wanted to talk to anyone else, but because his Royal Highness King Cyrus had drank a few too many glasses of his fine wine and had dozed off in his chair. Manners in the royal court dictated that no one was to be seated before the king, and no one was to leave before the king. King Cyrus was snoring lightly in his grand chair at the head of the table, so all the courtiers and advisors just kept chattering among themselves quietly.

This wasn't an uncommon occurrence. The royal court had once remained at the table into the wee hours of the morning waiting for King Cyrus to wake up and dismiss them. It had taken a brave servant coughing by the king's ear to finally jolt him awake.

Saria was considering catching one of the wine bearers by the elbow and politely ordering them to drop a wine pitcher, loudly and right next to the sleeping monarch. But as embarrassed as she was by her father's behavior now, she didn't want Drake and Ravyn to witness one of his infamous temper flares. She didn't have much pride left to show for the past day, and she was interested in retaining the little she had left.

Across from her, Ravyn emitted a cross between a giggle and a cough. Everyone except Saria had a conversation to pay attention to, so no one else noticed. Ravyn was looking at her hands, her lips pressed together tightly. On a hunch, Saria glanced down the table. A noble was picking a cherry out of her extravagant hairstyle and looking around to see if anyone else had noticed the fruity projectile.

Saria looked back at Ravyn, who was looking at her with a tight grin. She brought her hands into her lap, casually bringing with them a spoon. A couple seconds later she swiped her next weapon from the table, a large raspberry.

Very artfully, she looked in the other direction as if the fountains on the other side of the room were fascinating. Saria was watching her the entire time, and she almost didn't see the raspberry fly. It soared down the table, landing squarely in a half-full wine goblet.

Ravyn looked long enough to determine that she'd hit something, then ducked her gaze down again, still fighting a smile. Drake elbowed her subtly in the side. Ravyn made a face. How did he always notice? He hadn't even looked away from his conversation with Jackson.

Ravyn tried to look innocent when her brother shot her a brief scolding glare. But he had stopped falling for that years ago.

Ravyn was in the middle of deciding if she could make another shot before Drake snatched her spoon when a door at the other end of the long table flew open. Murmurs erupted all down the table.

From the darkness beyond the door, a man came running. His clothes were ratty and covered in grime, and one dirty arm had shackles hanging from it. One cuff was secured on his wrist, and the other dragged uselessly on the floor.

An escaped prisoner.

Everyone at the table realized it at the same moment, and hysteria descended quickly upon all the guests. The guards chasing the man burst into the dining room after him, as did guards from two other doors. The prisoner was surrounded. He didn't seem ready to give up quite yet, though.

After dodging a few swings from swords, he took the only available route. The dining table. He vaulted onto the tabletop, as if the mostly empty dishes were just stepping stones for his convenience. Ladies screamed as he sprinted down the length of the table, leaving a disaster of spilled and broken dishes in his wake.

About three-fourths of the way down the table, he leaped off between two courtiers. He skidded to a stop to avoid a sword, spun to the left, then vanished through an open door. The guards raced after him. And almost before it had begun, all the excitement was over.

The dining room was silent for a few stunned seconds.

A newly awakened King Cyrus was the first to break the silence.

"Unacceptable!" he bawled, smashing his fist on the table as if someone had suggested otherwise. He stood up so fast that his chair skittered backwards and stormed from the room. Saria highly doubted that he was planning on doing anything useful. He was probably just going to find a quieter place to sleep off his wine.

"Well…Everything's more exciting here, isn't it?" Ravyn commented, rising from her chair and slipping the spoon gracefully back in its place.

Saria couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not, so she just smiled uncomfortably and slowly stood up. Her hands were a bit shaky from the sudden excitement, but it had been so quick that she didn't have time to grow nervous.

Escaped prisoners were not a normal occurrence at the Asherian dinner table.

"I had better go find out what's going on," Jackson said quietly. He knew as well as Saria did that their father certainly wasn't going to do so. He started for the main doors, stifling a cough as he walked. Saria ran after him.

"Wait, I'm coming too," she said to him, grabbing his arm.

"Haven't you got more pressing matters to deal with?" he said quietly, inclining his head towards the dinner table where Saria's not-so-future husband was talking to his sister.

"Maybe later," Saria said.

"By the stars, you're marrying him tomorrow. When are you planning on talking to him?" Jackson looked exasperated. The way Saria shied away from talking with new people tended to do that to him.

"Exactly. I'm marrying him tomorrow. It's not like we aren't going to have the rest of our lives to talk to each other!" she hissed. Actually, she was sort of planning on never talking to him. It couldn't be too hard; perhaps she would pretend to go mute. Anything to keep from finding more things she didn't like about him, or, Blessed forbid, something that she did like about him.

"Talk to him, Saria. He's not as bad as you make yourself think," Jackson said softly.

"That's easy for you to say. You don't have to bloody marry him, do you?" she snapped, knowing that if Madam Porter were here she'd be slapped soundly for using "language not befitting a princess."

Jackson started into a coughing fit. Saria knew it wasn't her fault, but she felt guilty.

"Fine," she muttered when he relaxed. "I'll talk to him."

"Tonight," Jackson said pointedly. Then he kissed her on the forehead and left.

Drake was trying to scold Ravyn, who was rolling her eyes at him, when Saria tapped him softly on the shoulder.

The princess of Asher looked exceedingly nervous, and slightly pained. Her sun-kissed, Asherian complexion had paled considerably and her lips were dry under layers of carmine that her overbearing lady-in-waiting had no doubt painted on.

"Would you…care to accompany me to the gardens?" she asked with forced civility, then looked down at her feet as if she had been defeated.

Drake didn't know what to say to that. He didn't want to accompany her anywhere. He wanted to run away and never come back because he was scared to death of all of this. No matter how well he hid behind the cool and distant exterior of a prince, he was still just a frightened nineteen-year old kid.

"Certainly, milady," he said with a slight bow, imitating her cold civility.

It was for Silvern, he kept telling himself. All of it was for Silvern.

Saria had to force herself not to cringe when he accepted. She had rather hoped he wouldn't, though that was a vain hope. He seemed so sure of himself, so intelligent and distant and…old. It didn't seem fair that he was so at ease while she was utterly terrified.

He offered her his arm. She accepted it, and like two sheep approaching the slaughter, they walked slowly toward the gardens.

"I'm sorry if I offended you earlier with what I said about the Blessed One," Drake said, a bit awkwardly into the silence. "It wasn't my place."

"You're not really sorry," Saria said, not vindictively, just matter-of-factly. "You're just saying that because civility demands it."

Drake didn't answer. What was he supposed to say? She was absolutely right. He found the Asherian beliefs laughable, at best. There was nothing scientific about a higher deity who had set forth existence and now manipulated it at His whim and fancy. No proof and no evidence. Both of which were very important when it came to determining what to believe.

They walked the rest of the way to the gardens in tense silence. The night was warm, as all evenings were during Asherian springs. The crescent moon shed little light on the pristine gardens, so servants had lit lanterns to illuminate the pathways that meandered through the grounds. Drake and Saria walked stiffly down a random path, and ended their trek in a small clearing. A glorious fountain spewed forth water over marble in the center of the cobbled area. Fireflies fluttered about, like so many tiny stars that had decided to take a closer look at the earth.

Saria pulled her hand from Drake's arm and squeezed her hands together nervously. It was a habit she had developed over the years, much to Madam Porter's dismay. She paced slowly, back and forth in front of the fountain, considering all she had to say and deciding upon the best way to say it.

Drake watched her, silent and unmoving. She seemed like such a child, pacing and fidgeting, nervous and unsure of herself. She wasn't any older than Ravyn. He wished things didn't have to be this way.

"Did you have something to say, your highness?" he prodded finally.

Saria stopped and looked at him; apparently she had decided what to say.

"I don't want to marry you," she said, as blatantly as possible. There was no reason to beat around the bush. Not now.

Drake looked slightly surprised by her pert manner, but not altogether shocked by what she had to say.

"Well, I don't want to marry you either," he said.

At least they had that in common. But they shared nothing else. And a mutual disagreement about their wedding wasn't the best foundation for marriage.

"It's not fair," Saria said, for what felt like the millionth time.

"Things rarely are, when you're born into royalty."

Stars, he sounded like her father.

"Don't start with me about duty and responsibility and all of those horrible things. I've heard it every day since I could walk."

Drake looked put back.

"What else is there to life, pray tell?"

Saria blinked at him. He seemed so old. Even older than Jackson. Why did things have to be this way?

"I don't know, maybe happiness? Friendship? Adventure? Love?" She felt young and foolish saying those things. But that was fine. She was young. She was foolish. And a part of her knew that the day she lost those things would be the day she lost herself. She couldn't let that happen.

"I'm afraid life isn't a fairy tale."

"Maybe it could be," she was on a roll now.

Drake looked at her strangely for a few seconds, with an unintelligible look on his stoic features.

"Or maybe not," he said finally. "Maybe you should accept the painful truth."

"Why? Because that's my duty? It may sound ideal in all your stuffy, stale books, but I'm sorry. That's not a good enough reason for me."

Drake ignored her jab at his choice of reading materials.

"You don't love your country?"

"I love Asher!" Saria was shocked by the accusation. Of course she loved her country. Didn't she? It had never occurred to her before that maybe love for Asher wasn't something she was born with.

"Yet you can't make sacrifices for it."

Saria hesitated. If loving Asher meant this then she didn't love it. She loved her freedom; that's what she loved. She loved the dreams of the wild, unpredictable future. She knew what happened when girls became wives. They raised a family and withered into complacency. More responsibility. More broken dreams.

She wanted more. And maybe she was being selfish, but she didn't care.

"It's not like our marriage will save Asher from anything. Asher is one of the greatest countries in the world!" she said, trying to convince herself. Her father was just using her to get his greedy hands on more riches, nothing more.

"Well, I wish Silvern's position was as stable as yours," Drake said quietly, looking at the ground.

"What do you mean?" Saria asked, realizing there was something he wasn't saying.

But Drake had gathered himself by then. He swept a courtly bow, then looked her straight in the eye, unwavering.

"I'm sorry, your highness. I wish I could escort you back indoors, but I have pressing matters to attend to." Then he turned on his heel and left.

Saria wondered if the chivalry had dissipated once he realized she wasn't a charming, graceful, self-sacrificing princess whose only wish was to serve her country. She also wondered what he'd meant when he'd alluded to Silvern's position being unstable. Then she decided she couldn't care less.

After spending a few more minutes watching the aimless fireflies and envying their carefree existence, Saria headed back inside to find Jackson and try to enjoy her last night of freedom.

* * *

Drake was trying to find Ravyn in the hopes that she hadn't done anything too mischievous while he was away, when he came across Jackson.

"Did Saria talk to you?" Jackson asked skeptically, as if he didn't think she had.

"We discussed some things," Drake said haltingly, and swiftly changed the subject. "Did they find the prisoner?"

Jackson was easily distracted, and nodded rapidly.

"And thank the Blessed that we did, he was a Tevouin. There's no telling what sort of damage he might have done, or secrets he might have brought back to the Great Desert with him."

The Tevouin derived their name from the Ancient tongue for "desert-dwellers." They were a faction of rebels who remained safely hidden in their desert camps, which was a concern to the royalty in both Asher and Silvern since the Great Desert intersected the southern region of both countries. The Tevouin were considered highly dangerous, since their numbers were many and they strongly opposed all form of monarchial reign.

Despite the fear they evoked in both countries though, not much was actually known about the Tevouin. They tended to lie low. The fact that the Asherians had managed to capture one alive was a source of great surprise to Drake.

"What did he do?" Drake asked.

Jackson shrugged.

"I'm not sure. I don't even know when they apprehended him originally. But being a Tevouin, it probably wasn't anything pleasant."

Drake couldn't offer his opinion. There weren't many books written on the subject of the Tevouin; they had only been around for a couple of generations.

"Did Saria really talk to you?" Jackson prodded.

"I think we came to a mutual understanding of each other."

She didn't like him; he didn't like her. She thought he was stale and stuffy; he thought she was young and selfish. Neither of them was looking forward to taking wedding vows, especially with each other. It wasn't an ideal understanding, but it was a mutual one.

"That's a relief," Jackson said, with an unsteady smile.

"Yes, it is. Now if you would excuse me, I have to find my sister." Drake inclined his head and then hurried off. This was his last night of freedom. He needed to find a way to enjoy it.

But that seemed a bit like wishful thinking.


	5. Emotion

_"Emotion is a terrible thing for a king to fall victim to. For when a king allows himself to feel emotion, he allows himself to become human. Humans cannot be sovereign."_

_-The Duties, Responsibilities, and Expectations of Royalty_

It was the fourth day in the Month of the Fox and it was raining. The rainfall came in torrents, lashing out at the rolling valleys of Asher with a terrible fury. It was as if the heavens above were conceiving to bury the land under a harsh blanket of water.

However, such a trivial matter as rain could not hinder the magnificent union between Asher and Silvern. Or the Royal marriage between Prince Drake of Silvern and Princess Saria of Asher.

Rain or shine, there would be a wedding in Asher. For, weeks ago, a deal had been struck—a princess's claim to royal blood for the hope of the riches that Silvern could offer. King Cyrus would not be thwarted in his endeavor for prestige.

And so, in the splendor of the Grand Hall, the Royal wedding began.

Since it was on Asherian soil, the wedding was to be performed in Asherian tradition. A wrinkled, wheezing priest stood in the center of a grand dais. On his right stood Saria, shaking slightly in her resplendent gown of blue and gold, the colors of the Asherian Royal Crest. Seated behind her were King Cyrus, Jackson, a beaming Madam Porter, and all of her father's advisors. The wizened old advisors were smiling proudly and mentally patting themselves on the back. The credit for this glorious event in history was all theirs.

On the priest's left stood Drake, still as a stone in the deep black and crimson of the Silvernian Royal Crest. Behind him, Ravyn fidgeted nervously in her seat beside a beaming King Richard. Ravyn never felt comfortable around the man, and currently she was too angry to even glance in his direction. She knew he wasn't beaming as a proud father whose son was about to be wed, but as a relieved king whose kingdom was about to be saved.

Hovering behind Richard and Ravyn were the advisors to the court of Silvern. All were as shifty as shrews, with crafty smiles. They were congratulating themselves silently. The credit for this clever merger was all theirs.

Watching the spectacle with great anticipation were hundreds of nobles. Their perfume and wig powder was stifling in the air, and the room buzzed with fluttering fans and creaking chairs.

"Let us commemorate this glorious day with a prayer to the Blessed One," the priest's voice was booming despite his frail figure. He raised his trembling hands toward the ceiling, and in unison every Asherian in the room recited the traditional prayer.

"Blessed One who gave us life and land, watch us now as we prosper in Your eyes. Let us live our lives and work our land, so that Your precious plans for us will not be lost."

Only the Silvernians present were silent, watching the reverent moment with curiosity.

Ravyn kept her eyes trained on Drake. He hadn't moved a muscle for at least ten minutes now. It made her heart ache, to see him like this. He was a statue, empty because he'd given up everything he was for Silvern. That morning, minutes before he approached the altar, Ravyn had wrapped her older brother in a fierce embrace. Then she had watched the last bit of life he had left in his eyes spark for a moment, and then die out completely.

Drake was gone.

Ravyn loved Silvern, but it wasn't worth this.

The ceremony moved forward at a sluggish, mind-numbing pace. The priest mumbled recitations in the Ancient tongue for nearly an hour. The occasional snore drifted through the Grand Hall; no one knew the Ancient tongue except for the priest, and the priest was about as exciting to listen to as a lump of coal.

Ravyn could barely keep her eyes open. It was her father's constant fidgeting that kept her awake. He would shift in his seat uncomfortably, remain still for a few seconds, and rearrange himself again. Ravyn wondered why he was so restless. This was what he wanted after all.

"It is time for the vows," the priest said gravely.

In unison, Saria and Drake turned to face the priest. Slowly, painfully, they dropped to their knees on the cushioned pillows placed on the dais. Saria was trembling so hard she couldn't breathe. The past hour had felt like seconds. She prayed to the Blessed One that the next few seconds would be an eternity.

Beside her, her almost-husband was as steady as a stone. How come he was so calm, so at ease? It wasn't fair.

"Son of Silvern," the priest said solemnly, and the sleepers throughout the room began to rouse. The ceremony was about to reach its purpose. "Take your vows now, before the Blessed One and these witnesses."

Drake's mouth was parched. When he opened his mouth his jaw was trembling. As he spoke, a slight tremor raced through his voice. He was painfully aware that these would be the last words he ever spoke as a free man. The words came easily, despite their gravity. They had been weighing heavily on his soul for quite some time.

"With all those present as my witness, I do hereby swear the unbreakable and eternal--"

"Father?!" Ravyn's voice broke sharply into the sober moment, interrupting the vow long before it was finished. All eyes flew to King Richard. He had slumped from his chair into the floor and was seizing violently.

Ravyn dropped to the ground beside him, holding his shaking shoulders frantically.

"Father, what's wrong?"

Richard's eyes were rolled to the back of his head, and the only sounds he produced were shuddering moans. The Grand Hall erupted into frenzied whispers and shouts.

"He's ill. Find the doctor!" someone shouted.

"He's possessed. Find the Inquisitor!" someone else cried.

It was obvious that total hysteria was imminent.

"Drake, I don't know what's wrong!" Ravyn said as her brother dropped to his knees beside her.

"Did he seem sick to you?" Drake asked as they both attempted to hold the writhing man down before he hurt himself.

"No! A little restless maybe. But he didn't say anything!"

King Richard had arrived that morning, only minutes before the ceremony was to begin. He had offered all sorts of tawdry excuses to King Cyrus, who was willing to overlook the minor breach of etiquette. He couldn't keep his eyes off the rings of pure Silvernian gold on Richard's fingers. Silvernian gold was highly prized for its raw and enchanting beauty. Many a man had died in pursuit of the power and prestige it could bring.

Of course, Richard had worn the rings for the express purpose of catching Cyrus's eye and greedy imaginations. The real reason he hadn't come until that morning was because he didn't want to sit down and admit to King Cyrus that Silvern had very little of its gold to offer him. That was sure to put a damper on the wedding plans, something that Richard could not afford.

The doctor arrived first. His white robes swirled around him as he knelt beside Richard. For two minutes, the man poked and prodded, and then he announced that it was surely poison.

"Someone get the leeches!" he cried.

Ravyn and Drake exchanged an unsettled glance. Bloodletting was not a practice held in high regard in Silvern.

"Leeches?" Ravyn asked anxiously. Richard's convulsions had subsided into mild tremors, though he was still unresponsive. Surely there was another way to handle things. He seemed to be getting better.

"You're right," the doctor said slowly, rocking back on his heels. "There's no time for leeches, we'll have to cut a vein."

"What?" Drake asked, alarmed.

But the doctor had already pulled out a small knife and cut open Richard's silken sleeve from his shoulder to his wrist. The king's arm was tinted a terrible shade of green. A small gash on his shoulder was oozing with black blood.

"Sweet Blessed," the doctor murmured at the sight. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Sir…" One of Richard's personal guards edged nervously over to Drake.

"Not now," Drake waved him away irritably as Richard was overtaken by another seizure.

"But sire," the man insisted. "I think you should know. On the way here, we were ambushed by Tevouins. We managed to outrun them, but King Richard was grazed by an arrow."

"What?" Drake was on his feet immediately, and there was no mistaking the danger in his eyes and tone. The guard hesitated.

"It was…just a graze."

The man was easily twice as wide and a head taller than Drake, but in two seconds flat Drake had him by his collar against the wall.

"And you didn't think to mention it to anyone?" Drake shouted angrily.

"I-I…he…said not to tell anyone." The guard was more than a match for his sovereign; but there wasn't much he could do in the current situation.

The entire Grand Hall was silent in amazement. Was this the same solid, stoic, quiet prince who had arrived yesterday? It was a jump out of character that no one, not even Ravyn expected.

"Not his fault…" King Richard gasped in a short period of uneasy rest between convulsions. "It was just a scratch. I told them not to worry." He gasped twice more for air and then the seizures wracked his body once more.

The doctor had cut a vein near the wound, but no blood flowed.

Drake looked from his father back to the guard.

"It was just a graze. We didn't know…" the man repeated hesitantly.

Drake blinked to clear his vision, and released the guard.

"The Tevouin coat their arrows in poison," he said to the doctor, who nodded.

"But I don't know the antidote. No one does," the physician said, his confidence wavering in his bloodletting attempts as he made another incision. He'd seen Tevouin poison work; it was like a snake in the way it crept up on the victim. Not even a headache, and then death took its hold and only a miracle from the Blessed One could reverse the effects.

"No one except the Tevouin," Drake corrected, and then whirled on his heel. "Where's the Tevouin prisoner?" he asked of Cyrus, Jackson, Saria—anyone on the opposite side of the dais who was listening. None of them had budged since the episode, as if they were trapped in a time lag, merely waiting for the excitement to subside so the wedding could resume.

Jackson was the first to snap into action.

"Guards, fetch him. Hurry," he snapped, trying to look inconspicuous as he clutched his side. It was paining him again; but he hid it well.

Cyrus was in a hushed conversation with his advisors, who were huddled tightly around him as they shot subtle glances toward the Silvernian side of the dais. It was as if they were toying with the idea that this was some sort of elaborate scheme.

Drake tried to ignore them. It would stand to reason that the man convulsing on the pristine marble would dissuade their paranoia that this was a ruse.

It had taken the sudden panic of the last several minutes to throw things into perspective for him, but now Drake had decided that he didn't like Cyrus. He didn't like his shifty advisors. And he didn't like Asher and its stuffy, superstitious customs.

He didn't like the way the entire universe seemed to be conspiring against him. If his heart and duty hadn't been chained to Silvern, then he would have run long ago. But he hadn't, and now his father lay dying on the marble floor of a strange castle. Try as he might, Drake couldn't evoke anything but forced emotion.

He was worried, as any citizen should be worried about his king. But it wasn't a son's concern for his father. Drake had forgotten what it felt like to have a father—all he had was a king. Just as he had forgotten what it was like to be a son, for he was a prince.

He briefly wondered how he had lost so much, and yet felt nothing. But there was no further time for reflection; the guards were dragging in the Tevouin prisoner.

The man smelled of death and mildew. Immediately nobles began waving their fans to chase away the odor. The Tevouin struggled unabashedly against the guards, who had him cuffed and shackled in irons. He seemed to be fighting out of habit, rather than out of hopes of escaping.

After one glance around the Grand Hall though, the man straightened up.

"Well," he announced with a suave, slightly demeaning tone. "A wedding? I appreciate the invitation, but I haven't a thing to wear." His accent was thickly Tevouin.

"Tell me the antidote for Tevouin poison," Drake said sharply, beating Jackson to the demand. He had been raised in the world of politics and sovereignty; this was his element.

The prisoner blinked at him, obviously not sure why the demand had been made. Then he saw Richard writhing in the floor, and he understood.

"King Richard of Silvern…" he said unbelievingly, shaking his head. Then he looked at Drake. "I suppose that makes you Prince Drake?"

"What's the antidote?"

"Now wait a minute, what exactly am I getting out of this exchange? And the satisfaction of a good deed just isn't going to cut it." The Tevouin didn't look daunted in the least. In fact, he seemed very sure of himself, despite the situation he was in.

"How about you tell us and I don't strike you dead where you stand? Is that a good exchange, Tevouin dog?" King Cyrus guffawed, waving aside his advisors so he could join in. Apparently once the opportunity arose to start waving kingly threats, he was ready to pay attention.

The Tevouin's jaw clenched, but he didn't even grant King Cyrus a sideways glance.

"There are things worse than death," he said to Drake. "And there's only one thing that I want."

Ravyn stood up, letting the doctor tend to her father. She went to stand by her brother, watching the man who held her father's life in his grimy hands. The Tevouin's hair was greasy and matted, and his chin was covered with a week's worth of stubble.

Ravyn saw the hard desperation in his eyes, and the way his hands constantly twitched under the weight of the iron that chafed his wrists. She stared heavily at the shackles for a few seconds, and decided that she could think of one thing that was definitely worse than death.

"You want your freedom," she said.

The Tevouin looked at her. She'd seen that look before, on a caged animal. Desperation mingled with a longing that was riddled with hopelessness. He was going out of his mind in this captivity.

Cyrus was guffawing again. The thought of letting a prisoner go free was amusing to him. The thought of letting a Tevouin go free was downright hysterical.

"Now why--" he started, but Drake cut in.

"You'll have your freedom," he said. "If my father lives."

Cyrus scowled at Drake's forwardness, not liking this foreigner stepping onto his turf. His royal advisors surrounded him again, offering their council on how to handle the impending situation.

Saria moved surreptitiously over to Jackson, not sure what to do with herself. She felt like a child, watching the adult matters with wide, unsettled eyes. Cyrus's behavior hadn't surprised her one bit, but Drake seemed very different. Very cold and sharp. Very much like a king. She didn't like it.

The Tevouin eyed Drake warily, unable to mask the sudden spark of hope that surged through his features. For the first time since he entered the Hall, he shot a glance in King Cyrus's direction.

"I can't trust any of you." The words seemed forced, coming from someone who was willing to sell his soul for one more taste of freedom. The Tevouin were a wild people, wanderers of the desert, never meant to be locked between four walls.

"Five seconds," Drake said quietly.

Ravyn knew he had seen the man's desperation, and was playing off his weakness. She hated that. It was something their father would do. Then she thought of their father, writhing in the clutches of death, and her heart felt torn. She didn't know what she felt anymore.

The Tevouin looked conflicted. His eyes darted back and forth, chasing his options. It all came down to either betraying his people's best weapon or remaining a prisoner to the enemy. For four long seconds, his mouth was open slightly, fighting with an answer. Then he spoke.

"Sage and yew root. Ground into a powder and mixed with water. He must drink it."

The Grand Hall was silent. The only sound was a servant's heavy footfalls as he raced to the kitchens. No one could believe it was that simple. Two months ago, the Tevouin camp had moved near enough the border that Cyrus could send troops without the fear of the unforgiving desert terrain. A hundred knights had marched, only ten had returned with terrible tales of brutality and sorcery, and a horrible poison that killed even those who were merely grazed by the Tevouin arrows.

That two common kitchen herbs could have saved those lives was unbelievable.

"He lies!" bellowed Cyrus, wanting to have the last word. "Desert devils can't speak the truth."

"That's ludicrous, coming from you, your highness." The Tevouin spit out the title with disdain and looked Cyrus full in the eye for the first time.

Cyrus scoffed at the audacity and raised his nose imperiously.

The servant raced back into the Hall like the fey were at his heels. At arm's length he held a tin cup full of cloudy water.

Drake and Ravyn rushed back to Richard's side. He lay still now; the only sounds he emitted were raspy breaths. His face was red with fever, and a sickly saccharine odor wafted from the grisly-looking wound.

"Tilt his head back," the doctor ordered Drake, snatching the cup from the servant.

Drake obliged. He had never seen his father so…weak. Richard was shuddering as if the icy winds of the East were ravaging his body. His lips were dry and cracked as the doctor poured the liquid between them.

Richard gurgled and sputtered, but swallowed almost the whole cupful. His eyes opened suddenly. He grabbed Drake's arm with a feeble grip and pulled his only son close.

"Drake…" he rasped. "Drake…"

"You're going to get better," Drake said. He didn't know what else to say or do. Richard had never seemed so fragile before. The king of Silvern was a powerful man, with no tolerance for weakness or hesitance of any sort. Drake had never been at ease with him, even as a child. There was always something about Richard's commanding demeanor that made Drake feel powerless. But not now. Now, the king looked so helpless.

"Save Silvern, boy…" Richard murmured. "Save…Silvern…"

One more seizure wracked his body, then King Richard of Silvern moved no more.

Drake shook his head unbelievingly as his father's grip on his arm fell limp.

"Father?" Ravyn asked fearfully, unable to accept what her eyes were telling her.

Drake frowned, his heart exploding into a thousand different emotions. This was wrong. This was all wrong. But he'd done everything right—the way his father would have done it. He'd taken control, showed no weakness. And yet his father lay dead before him.

This was all wrong.

"I don't understand," Ravyn mumbled brokenly, still in shock. "What about the antidote?"

"A lie!" bellowed Cyrus. "Back to the dungeons with the desert devil."

Drake blinked and looked at Cyrus, but he didn't say anything. His head was too swamped with uncertainties. He felt grief didn't he? His father was dead.

Dead.

The thought seemed so distant and empty. Just as he did.

Of course he felt grief, but it was a subject's for his king. Not a son's for his father.

What was the matter with him?

He pulled Ravyn away from their father's lifeless body, and looked at the Tevouin. The man had chosen his people over his own freedom. Drake wished he could blame him, but he couldn't. He and the Tevouin were the same in that aspect.

"I hope you're pleased with yourself," Drake said, feeling detached from his own voice. From his own body.

The Tevouin said nothing, and the look on his face was indecipherable as the guards dragged him back to his prison.

Ravyn buried herself in Drake's arms and tried to forget Richard's dying face. She felt like crying, not because her father was dead, but because the king was dead and that meant the future had just become a terrible and uncertain thing. But she didn't cry. King Richard didn't deserve her tears. He had stolen away her brother and sold him to the highest bidder under the pretense of duty and honor. He didn't deserve anything.

On the other side of the dais, Saria grabbed Jackson's hand and squeezed it. The air was heavy with death and deceit, and it scared her. Her eyes met Drake's from across the room. He looked so distant, so unattached. Exactly like everyone else. It was as if death was just an inconvenience, not a tragedy.

For the first time in her life, Saria realized what a sheltered existence she had led. Here, amidst this solemn world where tears were a forgotten gesture, Saria felt terribly alone.

And above the quiet murmur of the courtiers, the priest began to drone once more.

"Blessed One who gave us life and land, receive this life unto yourself. Grant his soul a peaceful journey, grant his spirit a blissful rise, and grant to those he left behind the strength to carry on."


	6. Different

_In the grand scheme of life, some things were never meant to be. But the truth of the matter is that most things were always meant to be._

_-Ageless Philosophies for a Perpetual Society_

Drake was leaving.

Ravyn was very upset, not because he was returning to Silvern, but because he was leaving her here. Leaving her in Asher! Of all the horrible, impossible, entirely inconceivable things to do to her, he was leaving her behind.

"I'll be back," he said, pulling on his cloak as the servants pushed open the grand doors. It took three men to open them, for the angry winds of the East were assaulting the castle with a terrible fury. Rain crashed down upon the courtyard in a frightening deluge, dancing to the tumultuous rhythm of thunder and lightning.

"Why can't I come with you?" Ravyn demanded, blinking against the sharp mist that the winds blew into the main hall.

"Because I don't know what waits in Silvern, it could be dangerous."

A king's death was more than inconvenience; it was a disaster. Upheaval was imminent in Silvern; no doubt word of Richard's death had already made it that far. That was why Drake had to leave immediately.

Ravyn wanted to scream. Richard had been dead for less than a day, and already he was ruining her life from the grave. She didn't want to remain in Asher with all the stuffy, ceremonial nobles and rude, pompous royalty. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go with her brother.

"It's only a few weeks," Drake promised. It was a four days' hard ride back to Silvern, though if the weather persisted it would probably be five.

Ravyn just looked at him unhappily.

The wedding ceremony had never been completed. There was no time. Drake rode to Silvern as a prince, and would return as a king. And then he would become a husband.

"Sir, the horses are ready." One of the guards to accompany Drake raced in from the storm.

"Please stay out of trouble," Drake said to Ravyn.

Ravyn frowned slightly and pulled her brother into a fierce embrace. He had grown so cold these past weeks. Even the fake smiles had vanished. Drake had been given a temporary respite from the wedding that would steal him away forever, and still Ravyn felt that he was already gone.

"You know, you don't have to do this. Not anymore," Ravyn said into his ear. She was talking about the marriage, that one unspeakable reason that he was leaving her behind. She was reassurance to King Cyrus that Silvern had not forgotten its bargain. Drake would be coming back to complete his vows.

"Yes I do, Rae. Now more than ever."

"Silvern needs you," she muttered dejectedly, not because she meant it, but because she knew that he was going to say it anyway.

"Goodbye," Drake said, pulling the hood of his cloak up to shield his head from the weather. He watched her for a second with lost eyes, then vanished into the rain.

Ravyn rubbed her arms to chase away the sudden chills and watched listlessly as servants struggled valiantly with the doors. She noticed for the first time that other than the three men pulling at the doors, she was the only person in the main hall. No one else in this large, unforgiving castle had come to see off the foreign prince.

It had been all fanfare and banners when they had arrived yesterday, but now that there was no king to impress, things had suddenly become less festive. Ravyn wondered if the trumpets would come out again when Drake returned. He would be a king then.

King. The thought was overwhelming and reprehensible at the same time. She didn't want this for her brother, not any of it. Ravyn stared blankly at the recently closed doors for a few more seconds, and then turned on her heel and marched purposely up the grand stairs.

Toward what purpose, she didn't know, but it certainly made her feel better to pretend like she had one.

* * *

To Saria, the castle suddenly seemed a very lonely place. It felt empty, which was strange since it was evening and in Asher the evening was when everything and everyone came alive. Normally the servants would be gossiping as they scoured the floors, the kitchen would be bustling, the dining hall would be full of nobles, and the musicians would be coaxing lively entertainment from their instruments.

But Cyrus had cancelled dinner tonight, claiming that his important advisory meeting could not be interrupted. Indeed, the king and his advisors had been locked away in the meeting chamber almost all day. Saria had wandered past a few times, in hopes of hearing even a hint as to what the newest developments meant for her. But her eavesdropping attempts were in vain.

Madame Porter had disappeared, and so had Jackson. In fact, Saria wasn't sure where anyone was. It was as if the raging storm had pushed all the castle's occupants into seclusion.

Saria drifted towards the grand stairs and spotted Ravyn climbing them at a steady pace. She took them easily, and two at a time, unhindered by a gown. She looked rather strange in her leather breeches and knee length boots. She wore a sleeveless tunic over a plain white shirt with sleeves pushed up to her elbows. It was unconventional, and very colorless.

Saria recalled Jackson mentioning that Silvern's fashion was a far cry from Asher's. There was less color and embellishment. And fewer gowns. Saria considered envying Ravyn in that aspect, but as much as she disliked the outrageous attire that Madame Porter put her into, she couldn't imagine wearing anything but a dress.

The foreign princess stopped at the top of the stairs and glanced vacantly down towards the main doors. Then her shoulders heaved in a sigh and she plopped down on the top step, put her elbows on her knees, and rested her chin in her hands.

Briefly, Saria considered just walking back the way she came, and avoiding Ravyn altogether. But there was nothing but boredom in the other direction, so she took a deep breath and went to sit on the stairs beside the princess.

"I'm sorry about your father," Saria said, trying to sound sincere and caring. But despite her best efforts, it was difficult to feel genuinely regretful about his passing. She hadn't even known King Richard, plus his death had stopped the wedding.

It was terrible the way the events had transpired, though. Saria couldn't imagine what it would be like to watch her father die. Perhaps because she couldn't even imagine Cyrus ever dying. He was more like an icon than a father, something to be observed from a distance. Icons couldn't die.

"I appreciate your sympathy," Ravyn replied without inflection. The response sounded automatic, like her mind was working elsewhere while her mouth handled all the formalities.

Saria hesitated, disliking the awkward silence. This was why she hated talking to new people. The insufferable quiet where only individual thoughts and worries existed was unbearable.

"Your brother…?" She drifted off mid-question, hoping Ravyn might fill in the blank.

"Gone," Ravyn replied flatly.

Saria felt strangely relieved, but said nothing. The silence resumed full force.

"Things should be different." Ravyn said suddenly and decisively, after a minute or so of the quiet.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Sorry," Ravyn amended, glancing over at Saria. "I was just thinking out loud."

"About what?" Saria prodded, because she definitely agreed so far.

"It just feels like things aren't meant to turn out like this, that's all. Like maybe we've been pushing fate in the wrong direction."

"The Blessed One wouldn't let that happen."

Ravyn just looked at her. Saria blushed slightly. She had forgotten about the Silvernians' views on the Blessed.

"Do you believe that your 'Blessed One' controls your every decision then?" Ravyn asked with exceeding politeness, but all the tact of her brother.

Saria frowned a little. She had honestly never thought of it. The Blessed had always been a part of her childhood. He was the traditional deity that she recited a prayer to every morning and the name that she took oaths by. But He was a distant notion. She honored and defended Him, because that was what she had always done.

"I suppose not," Saria answered.

That made Ravyn smile.

"Well, do you or don't you?"

"I don't. I think we all make our own decisions," Saria replied hotly, upset that Ravyn could question her beliefs so effortlessly.

"And the Blessed One sits by helplessly and watches?"

"No!" Saria was growing frustrated, because she was slowly realizing that maybe she didn't know what she believed. "What does it matter anyway?"

Ravyn shrugged.

"You're the one who brought it up."

"Well I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Fine. What would you like to talk about?" Ravyn smiled evenly, and Saria suspected she was humoring her.

"Are you glad that your brother is becoming king?"

Ravyn's smile vanished instantly and she stood up.

"Like I said earlier. Things should be different."

"What things? Like the wedding?" Saria stood up as well, but pressed the conversation. Ravyn seemed to speak in riddles more often than not, and Saria couldn't stand riddles.

"Among other things."

"You're being vague."

"You're being nosy." Ravyn raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well, you asked what I wanted to talk about."

"I was just being polite."

"You were humoring me," Saria corrected.

Ravyn smiled.

"Maybe." She started down the steps.

"Would you stop being vague?" Saria asked, struggling to keep up with Ravyn as she descended the stairs. It was difficult with the three layers of her dress swarming about her feet.

"As soon as you stop being nosy," Ravyn called over her shoulder.

"I just want to know what you meant when you said things should be different."

Ravyn stopped at the bottom of the staircase and turned to face her.

"I just mean that when I wake up in the morning, I can't help but feel that I should be somewhere else, doing something else. Haven't you ever thought that maybe if you could just make one decision by yourself, then everything could be different?"

Saria had that thought every moment of every day. But she had never thought to try and do anything about it.

"That's what being of Royal blood is all about," she said.

Ravyn glanced at her.

"You sound like Drake," she said with an unenthusiastic smile, suddenly seeming withdrawn.

Saria didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or not, so she opted to keep her mouth tightly shut.

"I miss him," Ravyn said quietly, tracing her finger absently along the polished mahogany of the banister.

"He only just left today."

Ravyn frowned down at her feet, then started walking away. Her voice carried back to Saria.

"My brother's been gone a long time."

* * *

Night did not suit the Asherian castle very well. Dark shadows lurked in every corridor, feasting off the few torches that remained lit. The skittering of vermin inside the walls echoed across the cold stone. The footsteps of guards making their rounds did nothing to chase away the looming unrest that hid within the darkness.

Ravyn awoke with a start, her heart racing for unknown reasons. For a full minute, she breathed into the black of her chamber, trying to reorient herself. Slowly she remembered that she was sitting in the overstuffed chair by the window. She must have dozed off.

The fireplace smoldered damply across the room. And the small candle on the table by her elbow had burned out long ago. She blinked a few times, adjusting to the bare hint of light that filtered through the bay windows.

A night wind began to blow through the open windows, causing the curtains to dance and spin in an eerie spectacle. Ravyn jumped from the chair and closed the windows tightly, all the time scolding herself for being so easily frightened. They were just curtains, for goodness' sake.

But the way the sheer gossamer floated in the breeze did strongly resemble a ghost. Or what Ravyn imagined a ghost might look like. At any rate there was no harm in locking the windows, she reasoned as she did just that.

The room was cold. Ravyn rubbed her arms to chase away the chills and the fright. She glanced up through the windows and watched the sky for a few seconds. It was dense with angry storm clouds, though the rain was temporarily ceased. Rays of light from the full moon occasionally found their way through, giving the castle grounds a breath of silver.

Ravyn pulled the curtains and ran into three tables and a chest before finding her way to the bed. She sat down and fumbled with the piles of pillows until she found a blanket suitable enough to pull around her shoulders. She pulled her feet up into the bed with her, before realizing that she still had on her boots.

As she gathered the willpower to shed the blanket and pull them off, something rattled in the far corner of the chamber. Her heart froze and she stared hard into the darkness with wide eyes. A small flash of color flickered, then vanished, then reappeared, closer this time.

Ravyn bit back a scream as something thumped onto the foot of the bed. She squeezed her eyes shut as her mind raced with all the terrible tales of goblins and imps that she'd read in her lifetime. She wasn't sure if she believed in the mythical realm of her books, but her imagination had plenty to feed off of. A quiet sound reached her ears.

It was low and raspy and terrible. Fear traced her spine. It was close.

She was about to dive off the bed and run for the door when something soft brushed her hand. Her eyes flew open. Wide amber eyes stared back at her.

It was a cat.

A massive wave of relief washed over her. It must have come in through the bay windows while she was sleeping. She wondered how it had managed to get onto the second story balcony.

The cat sat upright in front of her, its tail wrapped neatly about its feet. Its unblinking eyes reflected the dim moonlight with a yellow glow as it watched her carefully. Then, as if deciding she wasn't worth its attention, it began licking its paw nonchalantly.

"Silly cat," Ravyn breathed. "You scared the wits out of me." She reached out slowly and gently brushed her fingers across its head. The cat glared at her for a second, then resumed its preening. From what she could tell in the faint light, it was a small tomcat. Probably still young.

She stroked his head a second time. He was soft and warm and didn't seem to mind her affections too much.

The darkness in the room suddenly didn't seem so unfriendly. Ravyn tried to lift the cat into her lap, but he just meowed politely at her and slid from her hands. His meow was raspy, like the croak of a frog. Something must have damaged his voice box when he was a kitten. Now that she knew what it was, the sound wasn't quite as frightening. It was rather endearing actually, in a strange sort of way.

Something else rattled in the corner of the room. Ravyn started, but this time kept her senses about her.

"Did you bring a friend?" she inquired of the cat, reaching to pet him again.

The cat stood up and hissed, his amber gaze directed toward the sound.

"Maybe not a friend, then?" Ravyn smiled and slid off the bed. She felt much braver now that she had company. The cat didn't object to her scooping him into her arms.

Ravyn walked carefully to the corner, trying to avoid the small tables and chairs that were spread throughout the room. It was like maneuvering through an obstacle course blindfolded. The cat began meowing incessantly; his peculiar little croak made Ravyn smile again.

She kept her eyes trained on the floor, underneath tables and chairs, trying to spot the small shadow of another feline guest. She began to consider calling a servant to light some candles, but then decided against it. It would be fairly rude to awake a servant at this hour to help her find a stray cat.

A shadow moved. The cat leaped from her arms and ran back the way they came, toward the bed and the door. Ravyn blinked to adjust her focus, and realized with a terrible jolt that the shadow in the corner wasn't another cat. It was a person.

Ravyn took one step back while her mind tried to catch up with her eyes. Then she turned and raced for the door. She knocked her shins on three different wooden objects, and finally it was a small table that brought her to the floor. Something shattered beneath her and she winced as a hundred sharp pains invaded her palms. There must have been a vase on the table.

She tried to push herself up. More glass jabbed into her hands and she began to cry out, but a strong hand slid firmly across her mouth. Another hand gripped her shoulder and started pulling her up forcibly.

"Shhh…quiet now." The voice in her ear was so quiet that she barely heard the man.

Ravyn kicked and struggled with raw terror and instinct, but it was to no avail. Something glistened in the moonlight and Ravyn's hand shot out to grab it in one last desperate attempt to fight back. The jagged piece of crystal from the broken vase was the size of a small knife. It slit open Ravyn's finger, but she managed to get a hold on it.

The intruder cried out in surprise as she swung her arm back and dragged the glass across his cheek. He threw her forward and grabbed his bloody cheek in anguish.

Ravyn hit the floor and for a split second lost her focus on the world. When she found her senses, she couldn't breath. A terrible, gripping pain squeezed her chest. The air had been knocked out of her. She pulled herself up using the bedpost as support and staggered to the door.

As she pushed open the door, a flash of grey streaked past her feet and into the corridor. It was the cat. His guttural meow echoed behind him as if he was beckoning her to follow. Once in the hallway, Ravyn picked up a little momentum, but not much. The nearest room was Drake's, and it was empty.

The corridor seemed to stretch forever, and her attempts to call for help were stillborn in her aching chest. Her hands were red with blood, and the warm, sickly sensation made her sick to her stomach. The lack of air made her head spin.

Distantly, the sound of pounding footsteps behind her pervaded her ears. She pressed forward, keeping her eyes focused on the small grey cat in front of her and her mind focused on the knowledge the next room was right around the corner.

The footsteps were nearer. She could hear the man's heaving breaths behind her. As she rounded the corner, a sharp push on her back sent her flying to the carpet. She whimpered at the pain in her hands, but pulled herself forward, leaving dark stains of crimson in the plush carpet.

She reached a shaking hand toward the tall oak door. The cat sat in front of it, watching her with its amber eyes, meowing pitifully at her.

From behind, a hand gripped her shoulder near the base of her neck and squeezed hard. A peculiar sensation raced through her head, like a thousand needles scraping her skull. Ravyn lost her focus on the door, and then she lost consciousness. Her hand fell limp, inches from the doorframe.

The cat pawed at her fingertips curiously, its amber eyes sparking yellow in the light of the corridor's single torch. Then he watched in stony silence as the Princess of Silvern was carried away into the dark shadows of the unforgiving night.

* * *

Saria awoke the next morning to the sound of something scratching at her window. She slid her feet into her slippers and shuffled across the room. Pushing aside the curtains left her blinded by the morning sun, which shone fiercely through the grey storm clouds that still covered the sky. She peered out onto the balcony, but saw nothing. It was probably one of the stray cats that roamed the castle, though she couldn't even begin to imagine how it had found its way onto the second story balcony.

Somebody began pounding on her door.

"Saria! Saria!" Jackson's voice was muffled through the heavy oak.

Saria hurriedly pulled on a robe over her gown and ran to the door. As she pulled it open, Jackson nearly tackled her in an embrace.

"Are you alright? Thank the Blessed you're alright," he said, holding her so tightly that she couldn't breath.

"Jackson," she gasped, "What's going on?"

Jackson pulled back and looked at her. His blue eyes were steeped with a mixture of worry and relief.

"Did you hear anything last night?" he asked, holding her shoulders and blocking her view of the hallway.

"No, why?" Saria asked. She caught a glimpse over his shoulder of servants kneeling in the floor. "What's going on?" she demanded again.

"It's early. Maybe you should get some more sleep," Jackson said, effectively sidestepping her question.

"I'm not sleepy," Saria answered, and managed to slip past him into the corridor before he could stop her.

The servants in the floor were scrubbing at dark stains in the carpet. The stains were smeared in a trail leading from the corner all the way to her door.

"What is that?" Saria asked in a horrified whisper.

The servants glanced up at her, but continued their task in silence.

"Jackson?" Saria looked back at him. His arms were crossed and his lips were pursed in a grim line.

"The princess of Silvern was kidnapped last night."

"Ravyn was kidnapped?" Saria couldn't believe her ears. Her eyes flew back to the dark stains. "Is that blood?" Her stomach turned.

"Come on," Jackson said quickly, grabbing her arm and herding her past the servants. "Father is waiting at the breakfast table."

He pulled her hurriedly past the open door of Ravyn's room, but not fast enough. Saria caught a glimpse of an overturned table and a shattered vase.

"I'm not hungry," she stated numbly, but didn't resist Jackson's persistent tug on her arm all the way down to the dining hall.

The table was empty except for her father, as it always was. Breakfast in the dining hall was reserved only for members of the Royal family. It was a time-honored tradition, only observed because it had always been that way. Asher had many traditions like that.

From the head of the table, King Cyrus shot Saria a disapproving glance, no doubt unhappy that she had arrived in his presence without proper attire. Saria took a seat several places away from him, and Jackson sat beside her.

Cyrus took a long drink from the goblet in front of him, then continued perusing the piece of parchment in front of him.

"Is that the letter they found on the princess's bed?" Jackson asked, accepting water from the servant who bobbed at his elbow with a pitcher of it.

Cyrus grunted a yes, not looking up. He was silent for a few more seconds as he continued studying the letter. Then he heaved a massive sigh and leaned back, flinging the piece of parchment away from his plate so the nearby servants could begin piling food on it.

Saria and Jackson watched the letter in silence as it rested gracefully on the table just an arm's length away. Jackson reached out and snatched it, wary of his father's reaction. Cyrus was known to be testy in the morning. The king was just chewing on a piece of bacon and staring out the window, his thoughts residing elsewhere.

Saria leaned over so she could read it as well. The handwriting was even and neat, obviously someone had taken great care in writing the message. It was addressed to the Crown Prince of Silvern, and the note was brief and straightforward.

_Your sister is alive for now. Come to Dunn's Hill. The days of the monarchy are numbered._

At the bottom of the page, a bold crescent moon was sketched in the center of a circle.

Saria blinked at the words. They sounded so dry and fervent at the same time.

From the head of the table, Cyrus suddenly started chuckling.

"Those desert devils don't know when to stop, do they?" He waved a servant over.

"What does he mean?" Saria whispered.

"The Tevouin escaped sometime last night. He left three guards unconscious. Now he's gone," Jackson whispered back.

"So?" Saria glanced nervously at Cyrus, feeling as if she had missed something important.

Jackson pointed at the symbol on the bottom of the letter, tracing his finger around the circle.

"That's the crest that Tevouins ride under."

Saria nodded slowly. So the Tevouin prisoner had escaped, and he had taken Ravyn with him, perhaps as reassurance of a safe flight.

"Send word of this to Silvern," Cyrus said tiredly to the servant, leaning forward to yank the parchment from Jackson and shove it into the servant's hands.

Saria watched as the servant hurried from the room.

That was it then. For some reason the scene hadn't played out how she might have imagined such a crisis would. There were no clandestine clues to prolong the intrigue, no outrages from the king. The fastest riders weren't sent in a thundering parade to catch up with Drake on his way to Silvern. The bravest knights in the kingdom weren't sent on a daring escapade to recover the princess.

This was nothing like the stories that the maids whispered in heated voices as they tended the fire. The realization made Saria want to frown, but then the warm scent of fresh bread drifted into her nostrils and she began to forget the sharp horrors of the morning straightaway. It was terrible what had happened. But surely things would work out.

"Strange, you know?" Jackson said politely to Cyrus as he drew a knife across the bread.

"What are you talking about?" Cyrus grumbled, unhappy that his breakfast was being interrupted with something as meaningless as conversation.

"Well, first King Richard, and now Princess Ravyn," Jackson continued carefully. He knew how little patience Cyrus harbored towards him. "It just seems like the Tevouin people suddenly have some sort of vendetta against the Silvern monarchy."

Cyrus seemed to consider the notion for a few seconds as he thoughtfully pushed more meat into his mouth. Then he shrugged sharply and gulped down something that smelled suspiciously like wine from his goblet.

"It's not our concern. It's that boy from Silvern's problem now." Cyrus seemed to cherish the notion that someone's problem was not his own, for he chuckled again.

"If it's not resolved, it will soon be our concern," Jackson said quietly, but firmly.

Cyrus frowned at the comment that sounded dangerously like a reprimand.

"What do you know of these matters, boy? Shouldn't you be somewhere else, where the physicians can tend to you?" The remark was very derisive in nature, and reminded Saria of something a child would spit out for lack of an intelligent argument.

She looked surreptitiously over at Jackson.

He didn't speak. He simply nodded idly, eyes locked firmly and resignedly on his plate. Then he took his father's not-so-subtle cue and left the dining hall, stifling a cough as the servants pulled the doors shut behind him.

Saria looked angrily at her father, who was picking obliviously at a strawberry on his plate. She wanted to speak her mind, yell at him and call him a coward and a scoundrel and a bully and anything else she could think of. But her words stayed stiffly locked in her throat.

The danger that hid behind Cyrus's hard eyes and demeanor was not something she could bring herself to face. And so she sat in silence, picking at her meal and wishing she were elsewhere.

The sharp-witted foreign princess and her tactless, stoic brother seemed like a distant memory now. Saria's life had resumed its normal pace. It was not something she welcomed, but it was something she embraced just the same.


	7. Familiarity

"_Familiarity is a gracious gift for mortals. It feeds our inner security and lays to rest the thieving torments in our minds. But often the Unfamiliar constitutes the greater gift, for in those uncertain waters we discover our true strengths."_

_--__Ageless Philosophies for a Perpetual Society_

No one in Silvern was expecting the Crown Prince to return so soon. It had not even been two weeks since his departure, and already the prince and his small retinue of knights were thundering through the streets toward the castle.

The citizens of Rynherst, the small village that surrounded the base of the castle, stood aside in silence. All eyes watched the horses pass, then immediately whispers began to explode.

"Avoiding that foreign princess, likely as not."

"Come back to handle royal matters, you old fool." The miller's wife slapped the tailor on the shoulder then grabbed her young son by the arm and pulled him close.

"Run and tell the gatekeeper, boy. Hurry on, now."

The miller's son hurried on. He ran through the back alleys of Rynherst, ignoring the stray dogs that wanted to play. He made the ten minute climb up the natural stone steps that jutted from the massive hill that the castle rested atop of. It was a wearying journey, but even on foot he would make it faster than the prince. The horses would have to go the long way, on the horse trail that gradually reached the top by circling the hill at least twice.

He stood in front of the massive wooden gates and hollered breathlessly until the gatekeeper finally peaked through the small window.

"Whatcha want, boy?"

"Prince Drake is comin'!"

"I oughta box your ears for tellin' tales!"

"Ain't a tale, mister. He's comin' sure as I stand here, mister!"

And so the gates were opened.

The servants were still struggling to find their positions when Drake entered the courtyard. Drake didn't seem to notice that the trumpeters were still scrambling with their horns and the stable boys were just being roused from their naps. He just dismounted and walked right up the main steps and into the grand hall.

The interior of the Silvernian castle was elegant in its simplicity. Tapestries brightened the walls, brass torches lit the rooms, and rough-spun rugs lined the floors. Gold and silver used to glitter brightly from every nook and cranny, but Drake could see that the last of it had disappeared in his absence, traded with the countries further west for a bit more food.

The castle used to thrive. But now the few remaining servants simply crept about silently with their chores, only doing half of them likely as not. In these last few months alone their pay had been cut to almost nothing, so why bother?

Drake passed through the corridors and mounted the stone steps to the second floor in silence. A man slipped through a doorway and fell in step with him.

"Welcome home, your highness," the man said politely, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I'm not in the mood for formalities, Grey," Drake said sullenly, with a sigh. He pushed through a wooden door and entered a small, simple room with a round table and chairs in its center. Maps lined the walls and stacks of books filled the corners. A meeting room, of sorts.

Drake breathed in the dusty familiarity and collapsed into a chair. This room was the backbone of Silvern, the place where heated discussions, ingenious ideas, and risky plans were birthed. Once his father had commanded the room; the thought that the responsibility now fell to him was unfathomable to Drake.

Luckily he had left behind all the advisors in Asher, so the room would remain empty except for him and Grey, who, aside from being Silvern's own retired war hero, had been one of his father's closest confidants.

Grey sank into a chair near Drake.

"The news of Richard's death was…terrible." Grey rubbed his rough hand across the stubble on his chin and shook his head slowly. "I remember the day I first laid eyes on your father. We were both even younger than you are now." Grey smiled fondly at the memories.

"Protect the future king—that's what they told me. How was I supposed to keep that pompous, headstrong, reckless boy out of trouble? And me not a day older than he was! He was a good man, though, your father. Rode into every battle right by my side, always told me that Silvern's glory belonged to everyone—not just the captain of the guard."

Drake stared blankly at his hands through the entire spill. He had never heard Grey speak of his father in such a human way. Grey patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"Richard was a good man, not just a good king. I'm sorry you never got to see that side of him."

In Drake's silence, Grey continued.

"I remember the day you were born. I was the General then, and your father called me from the front lines to come to your christening. From the front lines to a christening! Imagine that." Grey shook his head and chuckled. "The man was mad. But he always did his best by Silvern. I'm grateful for that."

"I am too," Drake said, wondering if that was the way he truly felt. Was he really grateful that fatherly wisdom had been replaced by strict tutors, and that his only memories of Richard were of a stern, distant king?

"I know this is a lot for you to handle, son." Grey said. "But I'm going to help you through it."

Drake felt comforted by the fatherly words. In all his life, Grey had been the only person to ever call him 'son.' Despite his successful, but demanding, military career, Grey had always been there when Drake needed him. He was the father Drake never had.

"How's Alden?" Drake asked. Grey rarely spoke of his own son, who had been raised away from court.

"That sounds a bit like a formality, your highness," Grey said mischievously. "But he's doing well. Looks more like his mother every day. How's Ravyn?"

Drake shrugged.

"Hates me for leaving her behind."

Grey smiled.

"Sounds like her. But she'll forgive you. You did the right thing."

Drake smiled back. It felt nice to have someone he respected as much as Grey say that. But the smile was short-lived.

"How are things here?"

"You know me. As soon as you left, I let everything fall to pieces."

"Grey…"

"I promised Richard I'd watch over things. And I have, Drake."

"Richard's dead." It felt strange saying the words aloud. "I'm not a fool, Grey. I know what that means for Silvern. Please, be straight with me."

Grey looked at the solemn prince appraisingly for a moment, not sure what he thought about the forward manner that Drake was showing. Finally he smiled.

"I know you aren't a fool, son."

"Then tell me, how are things?"

"Precarious. That's the only word I can use to describe it. Things are precarious. The people need to know that they have a king."

Drake nodded. That's why he had come back, wasn't it? Then why did the notion suddenly seem startling?

"I'm ready, Grey." Why did he not feel ready?

"I know you are. But I'm afraid there's a good bit we have to discuss before a coronation can take place."

"Then let's start discussing."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to rest some first? It's been a long journey."

"I just want to get through this." Drake suddenly felt overwhelmed. He did want to rest. But a part of him was afraid that if he didn't finish this now, then he would never work up the nerve again.

Grey nodded understandingly.

"Alright son, I'll help you through it."

And thus the day passed in an uneventful, and altogether boring, manner. Drake was used to the monotony and tedium; his father had bred him into this environment. But Grey spent the majority of the hours pacing while he spoke, peering out the window to the bustling streets far below, and flipping haphazardly through the numerous maps lying about the room. He had always been a restless spirit, more comfortable in the open air atop a sturdy charger with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other.

Drake often wondered why Grey had given up the military life that he loved so much. But when confronted he would just shrug and say that Silvern needed him on the home front. Drake always suspected that Richard had politely requested his retirement, seeing as a few up and coming knights were steadily stealing the public's eye and heart.

War was more politics than anything. That was one of the first lessons that Drake had ever learned from his father. Yes, there were swords and shields and tactical positions, but in the end it was all about having the people's support.

"If you don't have your people's respect and approval, then you have nothing. Remember that, boy," Richard had lectured sternly as he bent over battle plans that Grey had presented him with. Drake had just nodded and obeyed. And he remembered it to this day.

A knock rang lightly at the door and it creaked open slowly. A servant poked his nose in.

"A messenger is here for you, your highness."

Drake waved his consent without speaking.

The messenger was escorted into the room promptly. He was obviously Asherian, with a sun-browned complexion and light hair. As far west as Silvern, where the sun was a rare visitor, skin was pale and hair was dark in contrast. The Asherian looked around the room, obviously unimpressed, and dropped a slightly crumpled letter on the table.

"From King Cyrus, sir," he said politely, and sneezed. Judging from his red nose and chapped lips, the cold Silvernian spring didn't agree with him. The man paused to give his surroundings another appraising glance, then he bowed out of the room, apparently anxious to leave this foreign place at his heels and return home.

"I only just left," Drake muttered. "It's a little early to be worrying that I won't return."

"So, this King Cyrus, not a friendly chap, I gather?" Grey asked as he unfolded the letter.

"Only if you're partial to decent, polite human beings," Drake said dryly.

"That doesn't sound like you, Drake…" Grey chided and trailed off. His face, brown and chiseled from years on the battlefield, paled considerably as he read.

Drake sighed. It wasn't like him. Passing off judgments on people was Ravyn's forte. He was the diplomat.

"I know I'm not supposed to…Grey? What's wrong?" Drake frowned and stood up when he noticed the older man's pallid visage.

Grey looked at Drake and set his lips in a grim line.

"Drake, promise me you aren't going to overreact."

Drake's frown deepened and he snatched away the letter. As he read, something terrible settled over him, weighing on his shoulders and pulling on his gut.

"I don't understand," he mumbled, shaking his head slowly. "Ravyn…she…this just can't…"

"I should have known the Tevouins would lash out. With Richard dead, the kingdom is vulnerable." Grey slammed his fist into the tabletop. "I should have known!" He started pacing vigorously, shaking his head and muttering angrily to himself.

Drake blinked at the letter, trying to make sense of the written words as they swam in his vision. He just couldn't wrap his head around the concept. Ravyn, kidnapped. But why? A show of power in this struggle between regime and sedition? A bargaining chip for desperate criminals?

He had grown up in this world, but never had he realized firsthand what a cold, calculating place it could be.

"This is my fault, Drake," Grey said suddenly. "I can't believe I didn't see it coming. I promise—I'm going to bring Ravyn home."

Drake checked his breathing and squeezed his hand into a fist around the letter. The wrinkled parchment gave way easily in his grip, crumpling with a sound that gave Drake a strange sort of energy.

"We're going to bring her home, Grey."

Grey looked at Drake for a second, then nodded sharply. He hadn't expected anything less. He wrenched a large map off the wall and smoothed it across the table.

"Dunn's Hill," he jabbed a finger at a point on the map. Small script announced the town's location in the southernmost portion of Asher, near the Great Desert's borders.

Drake studied the map carefully.

"That's at least a week's ride," he said without inflection.

"We can make it in less," Grey said decisively.

"Then let's go."

* * *

Ravyn awoke to a terrible, terrible headache. But that was the least of her problems.

She couldn't feel her arms, which was disconcerting. The headache was disconcerting as well, in the way that only splitting, pounding, tear-jerking pain could be. But at the moment, Ravyn was much more concerned with her arms. She concentrated, and finally realized that they were tied behind her back and had numbed from the unnatural position.

How long had she been here? Or a more pressing concern, where exactly was she?

Something tickled her nose and she sneezed roughly. Dirt and straw flurried about her face and she sneezed twice more before managing to pull herself up enough to escape the irritants.

Her surroundings were dusky and smelled of old straw and horse manure. She detected the top rungs of a ladder a few feet away and looking up, she could see thin streams of daylight filtering through slits in a wooden roof.

With a great deal of struggling, kicking, and moaning, Ravyn managed to pull herself up to her knees. Her vision pulsed gently in rhythm with the throbbing of her head. Her best guess was that she was in the loft of a barn.

She pushed all her focus into remembering what had happened. She definitely remembered a cat. Which was strange, but she was positive she remembered that much. And she remembered glass shattering, a raspy voice in her ear, and blood on her hands. With a few more seconds of concentration, Ravyn managed to piece together all her fractured memories.

She had been kidnapped!

A stream of panic traced through her system. Kidnapped by whom? How long had she been unconscious? Was she still at the Asherian castle?

Ravyn's wintergreen eyes dashed apprehensively around the loft of the barn, trying in vain to search out any answers to the questions that raged through her pounding head. She clenched her hands behind her to release the nervous tension and cried out from the sudden pain that engulfed her hands and arms. The shattered glass wasn't such a distant memory now. She was abruptly certain that shards of it were still lodged in her skin.

Still on her knees, she slowly shuffled over to the edge of the loft where the ladder rested. Cautiously as she could manage with both hands tied behind her back, Ravyn peered over the edge. By all appearances, the barn was empty. Maybe even abandoned. Who would kidnap a princess then dump her in a barn? It wasn't like any of the stories she had read in her lifetime.

Ravyn swallowed forcibly and looked down the height of the ladder. One thing was certain, she couldn't just sit here and wait to see if the captors would return. There were two of them, she was sure of that. Or perhaps three. All she could really recall were blurry faces that hovered as she came to, and then a peculiar scent, and then unconsciousness once more.

Was it even possible to climb down a ladder with her hands behind her back? Probably not. Ravyn let the notion sink in for a few moments. But all the rationality in the world didn't deter the reality of this situation. She was in the loft of a barn, and she had to get out. Which meant she had to try climbing the ladder. Besides, it was only about fifteen feet down.

Somehow, that fact wasn't comforting.

She rolled onto her stomach, pointing her toes toward the ladder's top rung. Painstakingly, she inched her way backwards until she was nearly standing on the unsteady ladder. It was slow work from there. Every time she tried to step down another rung too quickly, the wobbly ladder would quiver its objections and she would be forced to wait for it to steady.

She lost count of how many rungs she had conquered, or maybe she hadn't begun counting in the first place. It was hard to concentrate with the hammers cracking in her skull. It didn't matter anyway. As her foot sought out the fourth, or maybe it was the fifth, rung, Ravyn lost her balance.

Admittedly, falling the remaining ten feet was a faster way down the ladder, but as she laid face-up in a very inadequate pile of hay, Ravyn began second guessing her decision to leave the loft.

"Owwww…" she moaned miserably into the dusty air. Pain danced gleefully through her arms and back, serving to whet the already sharp pains stabbing through her head. She cursed into the cloud of dust over her head, and because it made her feel slightly better, she cursed again.

With no shortage of moans and grunts, she rolled to her stomach and managed to get to her knees. Then she surveyed the ground floor of the barn with bleary eyes. Nothing stood out in particular, except for the wide doors, one of which lay partially open. Welcome sunlight drifted through the crack, illuminating the airborne dust that drifted lazily in the golden stream.

Suddenly invigorated, Ravyn scrambled to her feet and made her way unsteadily toward the doors. A barn, no matter how deserted it was, had to be somewhere near civilization. Maybe she was still near the castle, though kidnapping a princess and staying put made just about as much sense as leaving her in a barn.

She pushed through the open door and into the light. The sunshine grated intensely on her headache, but the fresh air made it worth it. The surroundings looked open and unfamiliar. A breeze tugged through the tall grasses, orchestrating the entire valley in a swaying rhythm.

She was definitely in Asher. Silvern's landscape was much harsher than this. Its beauty lay in the ruggedly fierce mountains and icy clear streams, where the sky was always gray and the sun was loathe to shine. A patch of green was as rare a find as a tree that had rooted past the stage of a sapling.

From where she stood, Ravyn could see nothing but green. It was a refreshing sight after her ordeal. Though a part of her missed Silvern, most of her was welcoming this verdant countryside with eagerness.

The realization that she was still bound tightly registered in her wandering mind. She had to find help. She could make out the dusty brown of a well-traveled road further down the hill. And in the distance, the cozy cottages of a small village were nestled in safety.

With one glance at the barn behind her, Ravyn started toward the road, her feet melting nicely into the plush grass. What a sight she must be, covered in straw and dust, with both hands tied behind her back, marching unsteadily down the road. The notion made Ravyn smile a little.

She had never been able to take things too seriously. Not even this kidnapping business quaked her natural good humor, not now that she was in the sunshine with certain safety only a few minutes' walk away. The numbness in her arms had even spread to her hands, deadening the pain. So really, at the moment, Ravyn could find nothing to complain about.

This was definitely nothing like the books she had read.


	8. Truth

"_Oftentimes, though our voices scream for Truth, our hearts prefer Ignorance. For Truth is a savage beast, rarely tamed. It opens our eyes, but can break our hearts. Ignorance, though, is a torpid demon. Under Its cloak, we are blind, but at least we remain in bliss. Wise pain or ignorant bliss? This is the dichotomy that tortures the mind." _

_--__Ageless Philosophies for a Perpetual Society_

"Excuse me, could I trouble you for a bit of help?" Ravyn smiled winningly at the bent old man. He looked up at her with wide eyes, as if shocked that someone was speaking to him. Then again, he could have simply been shocked by the sight of the dusty young woman with her hands tied behind her back.

"I…uhh…err…" He blinked at her.

"I seem to have run into some bad company," Ravyn said, turning and waving her tied hands at him.

The old man just stared at her, then glanced down the road into the small village.

"Follow me," he said finally. He hefted up the rickety wheelbarrow full of logs that he was pushing and started trudging toward the town square.

Ravyn made a face, wondering why he couldn't just untie her. But lacking any better options, she followed him. They crossed a bridge over a muddy stream and stepped onto a wide dirt road that led down the middle of the little village. Small clusters of wood and stone buildings rested on either side of the street, and in the town square a crowd of people had gathered.

Ravyn stared at the spectacle and could see that they were assembled around a large wooden platform of some sort. The old man stopped momentarily in front of a small building and nodded at the door.

"Inquisitor Duffin can help," he said without interest. "I gotta finish my work." Then he tottered off once more toward the town square with his cargo, muttering under his breath about crazy foreigners.

Ravyn stared strangely at his retreating back for a few seconds, thinking that perhaps she had stumbled upon the most bizarre town she'd ever seen. Granted, she had only met one resident.

At any rate, she needed to get herself untied and find out where she was. She looked at the door before her and suddenly had the notion that perhaps she should have asked the villager to open it for her. She considered the handle for a few seconds, then decided that if she tapped the door with her foot someone was sure to open it.

She started to do just that, but the door opened before she got a chance.

"Silence, witch! You won't hex me a second time!" The man in the doorway was yelling at someone inside. He stopped and jumped abruptly when he turned to see Ravyn standing expectantly on his doorstep.

"Oh Blessed," he said in surprise. "And who are you, miss?"

Ravyn opened her mouth with an honest answer, but stopped herself. Maybe it was best not to be completely forthcoming with these people. At least until she figured out exactly what was going on. No doubt some people could begin to get greedy if they knew they had a princess of a foreign country in their midst.

"I…I don't remember."

The man's eyebrows raised in his slightly plump face.

"Eh? What do you mean, miss?"

"I can't remember anything. I think I was kidnapped." Ravyn did her best to look helpless and pleading.

The man peered at her over his round, polished spectacles for a few moments. Then, glancing nervously about the road, he herded her quickly indoors.

"Can't remember, eh? Not a thing?"

"Not a thing," Ravyn agreed, relieved when he began untying her hands.

"These are some rather nasty cuts here, miss. How'd you get them, pray tell?"

"I don't remember," Ravyn reiterated politely.

"Ah, yes. Of course." He finished the task and stepped back, examining the rope as if it would yield some vital clues to his questions.

Ravyn felt like crying when she moved her arms. They were so stiff and sore that she was quite certain if she stretched them too far they would fall off.

"Have a seat, miss. Please," the man gestured to a nearby chair and Ravyn readily obliged.

"I'm Inquisitor Duffin," he continued, sounding fairly proud of his title. "And you are in Dunn's Hill."

Ravyn nodded idly, not caring quite as much as he seemed to expect her to. What she really wanted at the moment was a drink of water and some salve for her burning hands. Blood had dried around the cuts and she could feel some shards of glass still embedded in the skin. That surely wasn't healthy.

"Could you tell me what day it is?" she asked, observing her aching hands mournfully. She could barely move her fingers.

"The thirteenth day of the Fox."

Ravyn started. The thirteenth day? It had been more than a week since she had been kidnapped! And she couldn't remember any of it, except for occasional snippets of memories. The thought was terrifying. She had lost so much time! What had she missed?

Inquisitor Duffin leaned forward suddenly and lifted her chin with a single fleshy finger. Ravyn raised an eyebrow as he turned her chin left and right.

"Ummm…" she started, not quite sure what to say. Duffin lifted her wrists lightly and began observing them carefully, ignoring her. Ravyn winced at the sharp pain that radiated through her palms as he rotated her wrists.

"You're clean!" he announced, dropping her hands and straightening up.

"Excuse me?"

"We have a bit of a problem in Dunn's Hill, you see," he leaned forward slightly as if revealing a secret. "Witches and the like. Terrible, terrible business." He nodded sharply and straightened his fur collar.

"And you thought…" Ravyn trailed off, wondering if she looked like a witch. She wasn't quite sure what a witch was supposed to look like, but apparently Duffin could tell by looking at her chin and wrists.

"I can't be too careful, miss. It is my duty to protect this town." He flashed another prideful smile.

A muffled giggle erupted from the other room.

Duffin scowled and his bird-like features turned cherry-red.

"Be silent, witch!" he howled toward the open doorway on his right.

"Sorry, Duffy, darling," a feminine voice called back gaily, laughter still lilting her tone.

Duffin's scowl deepened and Ravyn thought to herself that he looked rather like an oversized chicken with his face scrunched so. His light, graying hair was slicked back smoothly into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck, revealing a receding hairline. He stood tall and was slightly rounded, but not excessively overweight.

Ravyn wasn't quite sure what to think of him yet, so she left judgments for later.

"So you say you recall nothing?" he asked of her, suddenly looking eager.

"That's right," Ravyn said slowly, hoping she wasn't getting in over her head.

Duffin nodded and tapped his fingers against his pitted chin in thought.

"Might you have been hexed?"

"Hexed?" Ravyn asked, unsure of what he was after.

"Yes! Hexed! Cursed! Bewitched!"

"I…umm…" Ravyn honestly had no idea what to say. "I really don't know."

"Of course you wouldn't," Duffin amended, looking pleased. "That proves it then! You must have been hexed." He stepped over to the doorway and bellowed into the other room.

"You hear that, witch? Your sins have come back to condemn you!"

Ravyn frowned. Duffin's reasoning was definitely not sound in any way, shape, or form. But she wasn't quite sure how to mention that without sounding trite.

Duffin whirled suddenly and headed for the front door.

"Please remain here, miss," he said to Ravyn, looking altogether giddy. "I have important matters to attend to. I'll return shortly." Then he was gone.

Ravyn stared at the shut door, wondering what exactly had just happened. For some reason, everything she encountered in this town made very little sense to her. Suddenly the giggling resumed in the next room.

"He's quite a character, isn't he?" the voice asked.

Ravyn bit her lip, but curiosity quickly got the best of her. She stood and walked slowly into the other room. It was small and bare, with a single wooden chair by the door and a single key hanging on a peg above the chair. The other side of the room was completely caged in with vertical iron bars. A prison, of sorts, Ravyn guessed.

The girl in the cell smiled cheerfully from her spot on the floor. Her legs were curved neatly beneath her and bare feet peeked out from beneath a simple gray gown. Long and unruly brown locks fell past her shoulders in loose curls, framing a bright face with dancing eyes.

"Hello," Ravyn said, a bit surprised at the person before her. From hearing the inquisitor's blatant accusations of witchcraft, she would have expected someone…well, different. Instead it was this smiling young woman, maybe only a few years older than herself.

"Hello, darling," she answered back with an ever-widening smile and hopped to her feet. "It's such a pleasure to see a new face around here. And Silvernian, too! It's quite a beautiful country." Her accent was thickly Tevouin, with rounded vowels and sharp completions to her words.

"Yes, it is…" Ravyn replied, before remembering she wasn't supposed to remember anything. The girl noticed her pained expression and giggled.

"You're a very poor liar, darling. But then, most people are."

"Who are you?" Ravyn asked, getting the feeling that there was something about this girl that evaded the naked eye.

"My friends call me Naima. Dunn's Hill seems to like calling me 'witch,' though. Especially Inquisitor Duffin," she shrugged. "Call me anything you like. I won't take offense."

Ravyn took stock of her for a second.

"Are you..?"

"A witch?" Naima laughed again. "Well, I haven't sold my soul to any dark forces lately, and I don't believe I could hex someone if I tried. Does that answer your question?"

Ravyn frowned.

"The inquisitor seems pretty convinced." A terrible thought suddenly occurred to her. "You don't think he'll tell people that you hexed me? As evidence against you?"

"Duffin will tell people anything he wants to tell people. But don't worry; I was condemned to the stake long before you came along."

"They're going to burn you at the stake?" Ravyn asked, alarmed.

"Yes, silly. Did you think they were gathered in the town square for a holiday parade?" Naima didn't seem at all phased by her own words. She sounded as if she were simply mentioning the weather, or something just as trivial.

"You're not afraid?" Ravyn decided that there was definitely something strange about all of this.

"Of what? A lick of fire?" Naima's smile reappeared. Her features looked empty without it. "Don't worry. This isn't the first time Duffin has decided to rid the world of me. I'll be fine."

"But--" Ravyn protested, unconvinced.

Naima chuckled.

"Have a little faith, darling. But shhh, he's coming." She waved Ravyn back to the other room.

Ravyn didn't hear anything, but she went back to her seat. Three seconds later the door burst open. Duffin raced in, snatched his black woolen cloak off the peg by the door, scooped up a golden amulet from the table, and then ran back out.

Ravyn stood up immediately and went to the window.

From her vantage point, she could see Duffin bobbing up and down in a bow and waving his hands around grandly. But she couldn't see whom he was putting on a show for. There was definitely something going on.

And there was indeed something going on. Outside the inquisitor's residence, the whole of Dunn's Hill was buzzing with a quiet uproar as whispered rumors floated about with the latest news. The Prince of Silvern was here.

"Such a pleasure, your highness!" Inquisitor Duffin dropped a grand bow several times for good measure. "Welcome to Dunn's Hill."

From atop his dappled gray stallion, Drake eyed the small village warily, completely ignoring the man on the ground before him who just seemed to be groveling shamelessly.

"What do you think?" he asked of Gray, who had ridden up next to him.

"Not sure yet, son, but I'll send some men to look for her." Gray waved at the knights behind him to come forward then he directed them in separate directions.

"Might I inquire as to your reason for visiting, sire?" The inquisitor looked around warily as the knights spread out into his town.

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" Drake asked tiredly, dismounting.

"I- I'm Inquisitor Duffin!" Duffin answered, sounding miffed. "I'm the head of Dunn's Hill," he laughed tensely and straightened the amulet around his neck that marked him as such.

Drake regarded Duffin carefully, not impressed.

"Are there any Tevouins here?"

"Tevouins? Oh, no…" Duffin shook his head fervently. "No Tevouins. They aren't welcome here." He paused and looked suddenly thoughtful. "Wait, we have one of theirs in the jail. A Tevouin witch." He waved at one of the peasants. "Fetch the witch."

The door to the jail flew open suddenly. Ravyn raced down the steps and threw herself at her brother.

"Drake!" she cried with relief, embracing him fiercely.

"Ravyn?" It took Drake several seconds to register what was happening. "Ravyn! Are you okay?" He held her at arms' length and took stock of her worriedly.

"I'm fine," she assured, artfully hiding her scarred and burning palms from his vision. She didn't want to worry him further; he'd probably been going out of his mind this past week.

"Who did this?" Drake asked her, looking suspiciously at Duffin.

"I don't know…" Ravyn said. "I can't remember much."

"Your highness! I assure you, we had nothing to do with this," Duffin interrupted nervously. "She stumbled into town only minutes ago. I was offering assistance!"

"Ravyn, is that true?" Drake asked.

Ravyn nodded and opened her mouth to explain, but Duffin jumped in.

"I believe she was hexed, sire. By the witch."

Drake raised an eyebrow and Ravyn rolled her eyes.

"I wasn't hexed." She gave Drake the abbreviated version of the morning's occurrences.

"I don't understand," Drake said with frown. "Why would the Tevouins kidnap you then leave you in a barn?"

"The Tevouins?" Ravyn asked in confusion. "What do they have to do with it?"

Drake gave her an equally abbreviated version of what she had missed, explaining the note and the Tevouin seal. The gathered townspeople listened on eagerly. Such excitement was unheard of in Dunn's Hill. This was like one of the legends that the elders whispered by the hearth, only it was real.

Drake shook his head as he finished.

"It's as if the Tevouins didn't care if you escaped. But why?"

"Isn't that something you should be asking the Tevouins?" Naima skipped down the steps and into the conversation, pushing some tangled brown locks behind an ear with her bound hands.

"Be quiet," Duffin snapped warningly. "No one asked your counsel."

"Sorry, Duffy."

Inquisitor Duffin seethed at the frivolous disrespect.

"So, you're the witch?" Drake asked, looking amused. He didn't believe in such nonsense.

"So, you're Prince Drake? I imagined you taller."

Drake's brows furrowed and he started to say something, but Naima's attention was captured by someone else.

"Rowe? What are you doing here?"

The man in the crowd that she was addressing let loose a sigh and stepped forward. He grudgingly pushed off the hood that was concealing his features and looked at Naima pointedly.

"You don't understand the concept of subtle, do you?"

"Of course I do! But now is not the time for subtlety. The winds of change are here."

"And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?" He ran a hand through his short hair and looked pained.

"What's going on here?" Duffin demanded, not liking the way that he was being largely ignored.

Ravyn caught her breath suddenly and grabbed Drake's arm. She recognized the man that Naima had called Rowe. The stubble on his chin was gone, his clothes were fresh, and there wasn't a trace of dungeon grime, but Ravyn knew. He was the Tevouin from the Asherian castle.

Drake saw it too.

"Arrest him," he ordered sharply to the knights. "He killed the king and kidnapped the princess."

"Hold on," Rowe said defensively, taking a step back. "I did no such thing!"

"You let him die," Ravyn snapped. "You might as well have killed him yourself."

"Drake," Grey dismounted and put a hand on Drake's shoulder. "Maybe we should take this business away from the audience." He nodded meaningfully towards all the eagerly watching eyes.

Drake nodded his agreement. The entire party, minus a miffed Inquisitor Duffin and plus a struggling Tevouin, relocated to the outskirts of Dunn's Hill. It took three knights to hold down Rowe long enough to bind his hands behind his back.

"You can't do this!" he shouted, fighting fiercely and almost making it to his feet before the knights slammed him back into the ground.

"I can, and I am. You shouldn't have lied about the antidote," Drake said detachedly.

Rowe's reply was muffled, due to the fact that his face was currently buried in the earth. The knight holding his head eased up the slightest bit and Rowe looked up, spitting out a mouthful of dirt.

"I didn't lie."

"What?"

"I was telling the truth."

"Then why didn't it work?" Ravyn cut in.

"How should I know? Maybe the servant boy mixed up basil with sage."

The knight cuffed him sharply on the back of the head for the sarcastic comment.

"Or maybe," Naima slipped in between Grey and Drake to join the conversation, successfully escaping the knight who'd been watching her like a hawk. The man moved to pull her back, but Drake waved him off. In addition to the fact that her hands were bound tightly, Naima didn't look capable of anything remotely dangerous. Naima smiled appreciatively and continued. "Maybe things aren't what they appear."

"Oh, here we go…" Rowe mumbled under his breath.

"I don't have time for this," Drake said testily.

"Of course you don't," Rowe returned. "There's never time for an inconvenient truth, is there?"

"I'd say what you're pitching is more of a convenient lie."

"I'm not lying!"

"Then why did he die?"

"I don't know! Have you considered that maybe he wasn't dosed with Tevouin poison?"

"That's ridiculous."

"It's a plausible explanation."

"I like mine better. You're lying. Simple, straightforward, and a bit more believable."

"This is insane! I'm innocent!"

"Boys, boys, calm down," Naima interrupted gracefully. Both Drake and Rowe looked at her in silence, caught off guard by her airy but authoritative manner. "Perhaps we should stop pointing fingers and get to the crux of the matter," she finished lightly, looking blithely unaware that she had yet to say something that wasn't cryptic.

Through the entire argument, Ravyn hadn't removed her eyes from Rowe's indignant features. Something didn't strike her as quite right, but she couldn't put a finger on it. It wasn't necessarily that his blue eyes seemed genuinely frustrated at the accusations, or that she couldn't expressly remember his face in any of the snippets of memories she had of the past week. It wasn't even that he was lean, wiry, and not a day older than Drake, which didn't match her few recollections of the kidnapper. It was something else…

"He doesn't have a scar," she announced suddenly.

Everyone looked at her questioningly, prompting further explanation.

"I cut the kidnapper's face with a piece of glass." She gestured toward Rowe. "He doesn't have a scar."

"See?" Rowe said triumphantly.

"You still let the king die," Drake retorted sharply.

"I already told you, I wasn't lying about the antidote!"

"Drake, your father wasn't killed with Tevouin poison," Grey's voice was sudden and heavy.

Drake didn't break from the glare he was issuing towards Rowe.

"You weren't even there, Grey. How do you know?"

No answer was supplied. In the revealing silence that hovered, a terrible notion drifted into the air as if riding on the midmorning breeze. All eyes moved slowly to Grey's steady countenance. Drake was the last to follow suit, for it took much longer for such a gruesome suspicion to break into his head. He spun on Grey suddenly.

"Grey," he said again, voice rising with a frightened suspicion. "How do you know?"

The older man shook his head solemnly, eyes dropping from Drake's demanding gaze.

"Silvern is dying, son. Your father's recent ill judgments were hastening that fate. Something had to be done."

"You killed him?" Ravyn's voice was low and trembling.

"Not I, but some who share my love for Silvern."

"But his personal guards said they were ambushed by Tevouins!"

"They were ambushed by men masquerading as desert dwellers."

"The Tevouins had nothing to do with it…" Drake realized slowly, shaking his head as if to banish the hurtful reality. "You had Ravyn kidnapped to lure me out here so…" His piercing eyes shot back to Grey with a terrible fire in their depths.

"You're going to kill us, aren't you?"

Grey's eyes were soft with regret, but sharp with resolve.

"I wouldn't have wanted it this way, but Silvern must come first, son."

"Don't call me that," Drake snapped. "And I want to help Silvern."

"I know, but others are afraid that your inexperience will only cause further damage."

"Don't tell me what others think. What do you think?" Drake demanded.

Grey's breaths were slow and deliberate and his words cut deeper than any blade.

"I think the same. I'm sorry."

Drake nodded resignedly as the words of the man he admired most sank in. His shoulders sagged slightly in defeat and that tone of detachment he had perfected gripped his voice once more.

"You played your part well. I actually believed some of the lies you pushed."

"It wasn't all lies," Grey insisted. "You're a fine young man and I've always thought of you as a second son." He moved to put his hand on Drake's shoulder, but Drake jerked away sharply.

"How could you do this?" Ravyn cried, taking a threatening step forward. A knight quickly grabbed her arms and pulled her back. "Don't touch me!" she objected vehemently, flushed with anger and confusion. She ducked suddenly, because Drake's fist was directed toward the man's face.

The grip on her arms loosened, but the altercation died before it began. Drake couldn't fight back against the two massive knights that pinned him down easily despite Ravyn's frantic hitting and pushing. He breathed heavily into the dirt, heart racing with anger and throat tightening with frustration.

It had all happened so quickly that his mind couldn't keep up. All he could do was take in the scent of fresh earth and try to sort things out.

Grey looked tired and sorrowful as he mounted his charger.

"It was a terrible incident," he said softly. "The Tevouins ambushed us, and though we managed to kill them, we weren't fast enough to save our last remaining royals."

"Wait a minute," Rowe interjected suddenly from his position on the ground. "We don't have anything to do with this. Why are you going to kill us?"

Grey didn't answer. He just nodded to some of the knights then spurred his horse on, followed by the rest of the troop. The knights pulled away from Rowe and drew their swords, faces void of expression.

Drake grit his teeth as the guard on his back pressed the tip of a blade between his shoulder blades, but suddenly he couldn't summon the will to fight back.

Was this how it ended? After all he'd endured in his lifetime for Silvern, he was just going to die here, face down in the dirt of a foreign land.

"Do you gentlemen believe in the powers that be?" Naima's voice was soft and low.

"Silence, witch," one of the knights barked, but there was a breath of hesitancy in his tone.

"Oh, I'm no witch. I'm afraid you're up against something much more powerful."

Rowe gave a muffled snort, but no one seemed to notice. All were arrested by the heavy wind that had suddenly picked up. Dust and autumn leaves from the few trees began to swirl in a hypnotic dance.

Drake felt the sword on his back pull back slightly, and he looked up to see Naima smiling pleasantly as eddies of air tugged on her brown locks. One of the knights' swords flew suddenly from his grip and shot through the air in a graceful arc, lancing into the earth several yards away.

Everyone watched in stunned silence as the rope around Naima's wrists began to untie itself, slithering over and under like some sort of twine serpent. A deathly silence gripped the air as the rope fell to the earth. Naima looked up at the knights, a hint of a taunting smile playing on her lips.

"D-don't kill us," one of the men begged. "We were only following orders!"

"I suggest you leave immediately." A strong gust of wind reinforced Naima's words. "And tell those whose orders you so blindly follow that your mission of murder was successful."

The knights didn't move, frozen with indecision.

"Or you could stay," Naima added lightly. Simultaneously, every man's sword jerked free and hovered threateningly in the air, swaying slowly as if invisible opponents were taunting the terrified knights.

They ran, clambering onto their mounts and galloping across the countryside as if devils were on their heels. Once they were gone, the swords fell one by one to the ground. Finally, as a concluding gesture, the wind flourished then died down, leaving the four in complete and eerie silence.

"Nicely done," Rowe said suddenly, jumping to his feet and spitting more dirt to the side. "A bit dramatic, but overall I liked it."

"You said you weren't a witch," Ravyn said, a slight tremor finding its way into her voice.

"And I spoke the truth," Naima answered, nimbly untying the knots behind Rowe's back.

"But if you aren't a witch, then how…" Ravyn trailed off, confusion marked on her face.

"Please don't ask her that," Rowe said, rubbing his wrists tenderly. "She'll only start preaching about the balance between the realms. And then she'll try to explain the rationale behind the realm of the fee."

"It's fey, darling," Naima corrected dutifully.

Rowe just looked at Ravyn meaningfully, as if his point had been proven. Ravyn shook her head bewilderedly and grabbed Drake's arm to help him up. Drake dusted himself off, glancing warily between the two Tevouins.

"I accept your apology," Rowe said pointedly, crossing his arms.

"I didn't offer one," Drake snapped back, not showing any concern for the magic show that had just transpired.

"Drake!" Ravyn exclaimed and elbowed him in the side. Drake wasn't moved by her reprimand.

"We're leaving, Ravyn," he said firmly.

"And where, exactly, do you plan on going?" Rowe looked amused.

"I don't see how it's any of your concern, but we're going home."

Rowe attempted to hide his subsequent laughter behind a cough and did a very poor job of it. Naima shot him a scolding glare and spoke up diplomatically.

"That's your decision, but surely you can't expect to make such an arduous journey with just the clothes on your back? The Great Desert is only a day's walk away. Come with us and at least get some supplies."

"Hold it," Rowe complained. "I came to this miserable little town to help you, Naima. Not some pompous royals with no good sense."

"I never asked for your help," Naima chimed.

"And who are you calling pompous?" Ravyn demanded.

Only Drake didn't seem stirred by his comment.

"It's fine," he said coolly. "We don't associate with criminals anyway. Let's go, Ravyn." He began to walk away.

Ravyn hesitated, glanced apologetically at Naima, and then hurried after him.

"Hold on," she insisted, finally catching him right out of earshot of the other two. "You've no right to talk to Naima like that! She saved our lives."

"So you're on a first name basis now?" he asked sarcastically, and kept walking.

Ravyn sighed exasperatedly and caught up to him again, this time stopping square in front of him so he was forced to look her in the eye.

"Why are you acting like this?"

"Like what?"

"Drake! You're being rude…judgmental…irrational! It's not like you."

Drake avoided her gaze and tried to keep walking, but she grabbed his arms and stood firm, despite the sharp burning that clawed at her palms from the cuts.

"I'm just trying to do the right thing, Rae," he said finally.

"Then quit acting like Father." There. She'd said it.

She could tell her words had stung him by the way his questioning gaze found her eyes. She had accused him of being a lot of things in her lifetime. Stuffy, boring, narrow-minded—but never had she likened him to their father. Yet now she had, and it settled in the air like a gritty tar.

"At least our father was loyal."

He was thinking of Grey; that's what was bothering him so severely. Ravyn realized for the first time how much deeper the betrayal was to Drake. She had never known Grey very well, but Drake had respected the man with all the admiration that King Richard didn't deserve. She had been betrayed by a retired general of her father's armies. Drake had been stabbed in the back by the only real father he knew.

"Grey was wrong about you," she said softly. "You would have saved Silvern."

"I don't care what Grey thinks." It was a pathetic attempt at a lie.

"He was wrong!" Ravyn insisted. "And you don't have to prove anything, not to me, not to Silvern, and especially not to him."

A tense silence gripped the air between them.

"I don't know how to get through this, Rae," Drake muttered brokenly, suddenly sounding vulnerable and more like her brother than he had in a long time.

"Neither do I," Ravyn confessed with a small smile and threw her arms around him in a fierce embrace. "But let's learn together."


	9. Motives

"_A man's motives are never to be judged by his character, and neither should his character be judged by his motives. Motives are ever-changing, subject to the fierce winds of success and disaster. But character is made of stronger stuff, and when you know a man's character, you can finally know the man."_

_--__Wisdom in Matters of Justice and Politics_

Grey didn't know what the world was coming to. He could remember a time when things were so much simpler. Kings were all but immortal. Wars were fought on a battlefield. Age meant wisdom, and wisdom demanded respect. But now things were different. Complicated.

What had transpired in those years, to bring life to this? Blood was second to popularity when it came to monarchy. War was a game of politics that could be fought through any venue. Murder was no longer an unmentionable sin.

Grey gripped his reins tightly as a surge of guilt wracked his body. He had just done the unthinkable, hadn't he? He had just committed murder. It wasn't his sword that performed the grisly deed, but the blood stained his hands just the same.

The thought was vulgar. He suddenly felt angry. How could things have come to this? Had he no honor? No dignity? No valor left in the whole of his being?

He once had all those things.

_Richard stole them._

Grey jerked his mind away from the thought. That wasn't true. His old friend had asked him to resign his position of general for the good of Silvern.

_Not true._

Grey shook his head slowly. As much as he tried to convince himself, he knew as well as anyone that his forced retirement was a political play on Richard's part. The people wanted young and vibrant generals that they could shower with worship and adoration. Grey was no longer either of those things. Richard had put his desire for the people's appreciation in front of his friendship, and maybe even in front of Silvern's welfare. No one denied Grey's mastery of all things military, and everyone, even King Richard, knew that he was the only person qualified for the position of general.

_Richard brought this on himself. _

Grey lacked the willpower to deny the creeping thought.

The three knights he had left behind to complete the mission caught up to their comrades in a cloud of dust and hooves.

"Is it done?" Grey asked, a part of him hoping against hope. He didn't want things to be this way.

The knights glanced among themselves, looking nervous. But the man at the front nodded firmly.

"Yes sir. It's done."

As they fell into line behind the others, Grey wondered what had them looking so anxious. No doubt the notion of treachery had something to do with it. But he didn't press further into the matter. Among all present, he was the least enthusiastic about this entire venture. And it was a fine line that he walked, for in this massive overturning of power, those who weren't for the revolution were against it, and had to be disposed of.

Grey had been bought out. Not with money or power—the thoughts of those things disgusted him at this point. The promise of stability for Silvern was all that could persuade him to take part in this most volatile act. And once he was in, there was no way out.

He didn't know who was at the head of this rebellion. Maybe it was no one, or perhaps the chain of power was too complicated to ever unravel. All Grey knew was that the time had come to choose his loyalties and he had taken a side. There was no turning back, no matter how sick these methods made him.

Richard may have deserved his fate, but Drake and Ravyn…they were innocent. By chance of birth they had been condemned to die and Grey himself had played the reaper. He felt sick to his stomach. He had watched those two grow up. He helped Ravyn mount her first horse, and chased after her when she gleefully sent the mare into a mad gallop. He observed Drake's first fencing match, and helped him off the ground when he lost miserably.

And now he had murdered them, all for the sake of ideals that even he couldn't understand. When had things become this complicated?

_When you sold out to the sedition…_

"For Silvern," Grey murmured, manipulating his reins so his charger avoided the deepest mud puddles on the King's Highway. They were headed north, with Dunn's hill at their back and the Asherian castle a few days' ride ahead. Someone had to break the terrible news to King Cyrus, and this just so happened to be the second half of Grey's mission.

The twisted irony of it all settled in his stomach like a gruesome poison.

It was for Silvern, he kept telling himself. Silvern needed him; he could not turn away.

_Not now, anyway…not with blood on your hands. _

Once again Grey lacked the strength to deny the quietly taunting voice as it whispered in his head. Instead he set his stony jaw and fixed his eyes on the road ahead. It was a long way to Asher, but Grey feared that no distance would ever be able to truly separate him from the betrayal he had left in Dunn's Hill.

* * *

Drake was lost. Not physically, for he knew exactly where they were. He had studied enough maps in his lifetime that he could practically picture their location on one. They were walking along the little silver line that marked the King's Highway, far behind them lay the small script naming Dunn's Hill, and directly ahead of them was the hastily inked title of Merchant's Row.

No, Drake was lost in a manner that was much harder to comprehend. His mind flew simultaneously in a million different directions, and yet he felt as if his thoughts were going nowhere. Had he missed something? Should he have foreseen Grey's betrayal?

What if Ravyn had been hurt? He glanced up at the back of her head; she was currently chatting away contently with Naima. He wished he could have done something to protect her from all this. She was too young to be thrust into this nightmare. It was his fault. He should have seen it coming.

"Merchant's Row," Naima announced suddenly as they topped a hill. In the valley lay a colorful assortment of shacks and pavilions, each hosting a myriad of traders and their wares. Beyond the makeshift town, the grass of the valley slowly crumbled into the red, unforgiving sands of the Great Desert.

"I've never heard of it." Ravyn took a few deep breaths and stared. They had been walking for hours without a break, and the new sight was a welcome distraction to her aching hands and feet. A gnawing pain had settled in the base of her skull and her mouth was dryer than a desert.

"It's only been around for a year or so," Drake said, feeling a strange sensation from actually seeing this place that he had read about. It was as if the pages of his books were suddenly coming to life.

"That's right," Rowe said, sounding a little surprised that one of the so-called "pompous royals" had something worthwhile to say. "It's basically just one massive, year-round trade fair."

"Sounds exciting," Ravyn murmured, wondering why her voice suddenly sounded far away.

"Rae?" Drake's worried voice swirled through her head, and Ravyn realized she was swaying on her feet. Drake asked her a question, but for some reason she couldn't understand him.

"Heat stroke," Rowe said, right as Ravyn collapsed. He was the closest, and caught her a split second before she hit the ground. "She's dehydrated," he announced, lowering her gently to the ground.

"How do you know?" Drake demanded, dropping down beside her.

Rowe gave Drake a look.

"I live in a bloody desert," he said wryly. "I think I know."

Drake didn't have an argument against that.

"She needs water, fast." Rowe dug for his waterskin with his free hand, but it was empty.

Ravyn had begun to shake uncontrollably, her closed eyes fluttering rapidly.

"I'm going to the town," Drake said decisively, jumping to his feet and sprinting towards Merchant's Row.

Rowe whistled softly and lifted up one of Ravyn's hands.

"Look at these cuts, Nai. You think she would have said something."

Naima winced slightly at the sight.

"They might be infected. I know where to get some salve in town. And I'll get some reserin too."

"Is that the green gunk?"

She rolled her eyes.

"No, it's the herb I used on Dev's brother when he passed out during the hunt."

"The red goo?"

Naima sighed.

"Yes, Rowe, the red goo." She shot him an exasperated glance and then started the short run to the town.

"Right, well…I'll stay here then," Rowe said into the empty air.

Ravyn had quieted into a restless state of sleep, which Rowe knew was the most dangerous place to be.

"Ravyn," he shook her softly. "Wake up."

Her eyes fluttered open briefly, but quickly shut again. Rowe shook her harder.

"Come on, stay awake."

Ravyn mumbled something incoherent.

"What is it?" Rowe asked, hoping to keep her talking.

"Stop shaking me," she snapped, with a bit more clarity.

Rowe laughed.

"Only if you promise to stay awake, love."

"I'm awake…" she murmured, but Rowe could see she was slipping under again. He grimaced and shifted; his arm supporting her beneath her back was falling asleep. What was taking Drake so long?

A tremor raced through Ravyn's body and her breaths shortened considerably. Rowe frowned and pressed his hand against her cheek. Her skin was blistering hot to the touch; why hadn't she said anything? Royals—useless, the lot of them.

"Let's go, princess," he muttered sardonically, struggling to stand with her in his arms. There was a small bit of shade provided by a tree several yards away. Rowe's trek was a slow and unsteady one. Ravyn wasn't exactly a heavy load, but then, Rowe wasn't exactly the epitome of a muscular god of war. By the time he knelt in the welcome shade, he was panting.

Ravyn twisted fitfully in her delirium and Rowe shook her again.

"Ravyn!" he called, snapping his fingers beside her ear. "Stay with me."

She seemed to rouse slightly, much to Rowe's relief. But tremors were still shaking her body every few seconds and her lips were as dry and cracked as the desert floor.

"Am I going to die?" she murmured, face contorting with stabs of pain. Apparently the gravity of this situation wasn't lost on her.

Rowe frowned and took her hand in his, mindful of the untreated cuts.

"Not if you stay with me."

* * *

Drake was twelve steps into the town when Naima caught up to him. She skidded to a stop beside him, grabbed his arm, and yanked him into a particularly colorful tent.

"What are you doing?" Drake demanded, surprised at how strong her grip was.

"The exact same thing that you're doing, darling. Saving your sister," Naima answered airily, dragging him through a maze of cramped shelves to the very back of the tent.

"Naima? Naima! Back so soon?" The robust man sitting cross-legged on a cushion waved frantically at her.

"Sevol, you know I can't get enough of your lovely wares."

"Who's your friend?" Sevol squinted in the dim light at Drake, who regarded him silently.

"Just a friend," Naima replied with a tight-lipped smile, by way of letting Sevol know that introductions were not going to be forthcoming. "We need water."

"Ah! Desert gold? I've the purest in the whole of Merchant's Row."

"And some salve and reserin," Naima added.

"Oh yes! I have the finest--"

"I know, Sevol," Naima interrupted graciously. "Why do you think we came here?"

Sevol beamed, his sunburned cheeks scrunching in delight to reveal shockingly white teeth.

"Haste, please, sir," Drake said cordially, not betraying anything. "Our errand is urgent."

"He speaks!" Sevol boomed laughingly. "And with resolve. I like that. A good virtue for a young man." He stood with surprising ease for someone of his bulk and maneuvered expertly through his crowded shelves. Though Drake couldn't fathom any sort of system to the madness, Sevol seemed to know the exact location of the products.

He dropped a small bottle into each of Naima's waiting hands, then disappeared out the back of his tent. When he returned, he was carting a water skin dripping with fresh water.

"You're a good girl, Naima, but I'm afraid I need the full price this time. One gold."

"Sevol! Who purified your precious water when that boy dropped a dead bird down your well?"

Sevol looked pained.

"And who gave you forewarning about that sandstorm last month? And who--"

"Times are getting harder."

"And apparently merchants are getting greedier," Naima glared disappointedly at him.

Sevol shuffled his feet like a scolded child, despite the massive age difference between them. He was at least twenty years her senior, but Naima possessed an air of authority beyond her years that could make the proudest fool hang his head in shame. Sevol didn't waver though.

"One gold," he repeated firmly.

Naima opened her mouth to object again, but Drake already had the payment pressed into Sevol's palm. Sevol smiled with relief and readily handed Drake the water.

"Very good," he said, nodding. "You two behave, eh?" He winked and chortled, as if assuming that Naima's "friend" was a bit more than that.

Drake rolled his eyes and headed out of the tent. Naima shook her head at Sevol, and followed Drake into the dry, open air.

"I suppose you're going to comment on my choice of friends?" Naima asked, not looking at him.

"I didn't say anything." Drake glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. "No one expects a merchant to make a living through charity." He slung the water skin's strap over his shoulder and started running back to his sister.

Naima watched his back for a second, reevaluating her opinion of him, which was a rare occurrence for her. She could generally nail someone's character in less than a minute. A small hint of a breeze trickled past her ankles.

"No one asked you," she said aloud, turning a few heads, but not many. People in Merchant's Row had grown used to the strange Tevouin female who often spoke to no one in particular.

Naima fiddled thoughtfully with the bottles in her hands as the breeze died away. Then she began sprinting after Drake, her bare feet flying across the dirt and crabgrass with ease and her tangled locks streaming behind her.

Drake was in the process of pouring water between Ravyn's lips when Naima arrived.

"Here…" Naima knelt beside him and popped the cork off the smaller of the two vials. She put some of the red, jelly-like substance onto her finger and thrust it into Ravyn's mouth.

"What is it?" Drake asked, with slight alarm.

"Reserin. It will bring her to."

Ravyn gagged and coughed, but Naima poured out more reserin and repeated the process thrice more with practiced ease.

Drake put the water to her lips again and this time Ravyn was able to swallow a few gulps. After a few minutes, with Rowe's help, she managed to sit up.

Everyone let loose a slow sigh of relief.

"Please, don't scare me like that again," Drake said slowly.

Ravyn shot him a tight-lipped smile.

"You know how much I enjoy making you worry." She shifted, putting her hand on the ground for support. Immediately she pulled it back, sucking in a sharp breath at the pain.

"No worries, darling," Naima said, waving the other vial. "I've just the thing for those nasty cuts."

"Rae…" Drake complained, realizing she had yet another ailment she hadn't mentioned.

"It's not bad," Ravyn countered.

Rowe snorted.

"Right. You're lucky it hasn't spread infection through your arms. I'd hate to have to amputate something."

Ravyn frowned and scooted away from him, as if suddenly worried he was going to do just that. Drake took advantage of her momentary distraction and grabbed one of her wrists in an iron grip.

"Ow…" Ravyn yelped, but didn't stand a chance as Naima attacked her wounds with a doctor's touch.

"There's glass in some of these cuts!" she proclaimed as she prodded. "I can't believe you didn't say something."

Ravyn did her best to avoid Drake's pointed glare, but wasn't successful for long.

"What?" she demanded. "Like we don't have more pressing matters to worry about? I'm fine--" she winced and jerked back as Naima picked at a piece of glass.

Drake didn't release her wrist.

"Ravyn, I can't believe this! You could have died!"

"But I didn't," Ravyn said firmly, gritting her teeth as Naima smeared some green-tinted salve onto her palm. She gave Naima her other hand freely, mostly so Drake wouldn't attach himself to that wrist too.

"This isn't a game. Haven't you realized that yet?" Drake released her wrist and stared irritably at her.

"I know, Drake! I know."

"Then why can't you start acting like it?"

"I'm sorry if I can't take everything as seriously as you, okay? I just can't!" Ravyn realized her voice had risen to a yell. She couldn't help it; she hated it when he started lecturing her. He sounded like Father.

Drake threw his hands exasperatedly into the air and jumped to his feet.

"Well, now would be an excellent time to learn how, don't you think?" His glare challenged hers for a few seconds, but Ravyn bit her lip and looked away stubbornly. Drake shook his head and stalked off to clear his head, not stopping until he was at the crest of an adjacent hill that overlooked the Asherian countryside.

"All finished," Naima announced into the awkward silence, wiping her salve-covered fingers off in the grass. "You'll need to wrap them."

"Thank you," Ravyn muttered, not managing to sound the least bit grateful in her present mood.

"No trouble, darling," Naima chimed, amusing herself with getting the corks back into their vials. But that didn't serve as a distraction for long, and the uncomfortable silence soon resumed.

"I think perhaps I'll have a word with him," Naima said finally, rising to her feet. She smiled at Rowe, who was glaring at her, annoyed that she'd found a way to escape the awkward situation. Then she skipped off after Drake.

Rowe twiddled his thumbs for a few moments as Ravyn seethed. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"I think I'll go have a look around the town…" He started to get up.

"Why does he have to be so…infuriating?" Ravyn demanded rhetorically.

Rowe eased back down to the ground.

"Better yet, I'll stay," he amended, glancing mournfully toward the valley. Escape had been so near.

"He treats me like a child!" Ravyn continued.

"Well, you tend to give him reason to," Rowe said hesitantly, unsure why he was defending Drake. He didn't even like him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ravyn snapped.

Rowe raised his hands in surrender.

"I'm just saying…"

"Because I don't treat every little incident like a bloody national crisis, then I must be a child?"

Rowe raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't know princesses were allowed to use such common language."

"I'll use whatever class of language I bloody well please." She looked pointedly at Rowe, and he laughed shortly.

"Of course you will."

"I just wish that he would stop worrying for two seconds," Ravyn muttered, glancing heatedly in the direction Drake had gone. "He used to be fun."

"Well," Rowe pointed out. "You used to be safe in a castle without a death sentence hanging over your head. I'd say the circumstances call for a slight change in attitude." By the stars, he'd defended him again.

Ravyn regarded him suspiciously for a few moments, but didn't argue further. Rowe sighed and, with the help of a knife he pulled from his belt, ripped two strips from the hem of his cloak. He gestured for Ravyn to give him her hands.

Ravyn made a face, but let him bandage her wounded palms.

"Why are you helping us?" she asked, looking from his hands to his face.

Rowe glanced up, but quickly resumed his task.

"I'm a Tevouin, not a savage. I imagine any decent human being would do the same."

Ravyn nodded and winced as he pulled the makeshift bandage tight.

"Sorry," he said, noticing her discomfort. "I'm done."

"Thank you," Ravyn said, cradling her hands and managing to sound genuine.

"For what? Being decent?" Rowe grinned. Ravyn liked the way his smile echoed through his intensely blue eyes.

"Not very many people are these days," she said, suddenly feeling cynical, which was rare for her.

Rowe thought about the deadly betrayal he had witnessed just that morning, and suddenly couldn't disagree.

* * *

"Lovely view," Naima commented, sidling up next to Drake, who was brooding without expression.

From the corner of her vision, she saw Drake rolling his eyes. For some reason, that made her smile, which wasn't necessarily odd because most things did.

"I'm sorry, darling," she said coyly, "Am I bothering you?"

"If I said yes, would you leave?" Drake returned tiredly.

"I imagine not, but it would certainly give us a terrific conversation starter."

"And how, pray tell, do you conceive that?"

"How am I bothering you?" she grinned angelically and looked at him.

Drake's eyes rolled heavenward once more.

"So many ways…" he muttered under his breath.

"Beg pardon?"

"It's not your doing, milady," he said aloud, returning her terse smile of feigned innocence. "I'm feeling out of sorts."

"Please call me Naima; I detest formalities. Besides, I possess no rank."

"Beg pardon, milady." He added the formality with a hint of mischief, forcing Naima to reevaluate her opinion of him once more.

"You're complicated," she said matter-of-factly.

"I'm sorry?" He gave her sideways glance, unsure of what else to say.

"Could I ask you a question?"

Drake raised an eyebrow at the way she jumped from one subject to the next, as if there were no time to waste on logical progression.

"I can't promise an answer."

"Do you believe in destiny?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"It's very simple, yes or no. Do you believe that some people are destined for certain things and that the scheme of life revolves around this so-called destiny?"

"That's a rather deep question."

"Is that your way of telling me you aren't going to answer?"

"Yes."

"Yes to the first question, or the second?" Any other person would be confounded by her rapid line of questioning, and perhaps even be tricked into telling her what she wanted to know. But Drake just raised an eyebrow at her and smiled politely.

"You're free to interpret as you wish, milady." He had a feeling she would anyway.

Naima just observed him in silence for a few seconds.

"I don't understand you," she admitted.

"No one said you had to."

"Well, if we are to be traveling companions--"

"Perhaps now would be the time to make this perfectly clear—my sister and I are not joining in any sort of companionship with you and Rowe. We are gratefully accepting the hospitality you offered, and then we are leaving."

"Yes, well, until then--"

"Until then we are merely traveling the same path. Nothing more."

Naima was slightly taken aback by Drake's suddenly tactless manner.

"Do you have a problem with me personally, sir? Or is there another matter here?" she asked with cold, forced civility.

Drake looked back toward the countryside without answering.

"You have a problem with the fact that I'm a Tevouin, don't you?" The realization was actually a surprise to her, and she glanced over at Drake. "We aren't what you think."

"You don't know what I think."

"Why don't you enlighten me then?"

"Maybe another time."

"You really are complicated."

"As I said before, I'm sorry."

"Why do you judge us without cause?" She looked at him challengingly.

"Why do you insist on provoking the matter?" Drake returned her gaze without wavering.

She didn't have an answer for him, not a logical one anyway. She suspected his position was the same.

"Fair enough," she announced. "I suppose we've reached an accord."

"I would define it more as an impasse." He was just being controversial now.

"Let's not argue about the particulars, shall we?"

"As you wish, milady."

Naima stopped a scowl mid-form and forced a tight lipped smile at him.

"Well, we should be off then. Your sister is well enough by now, I imagine."

"And if she isn't?" Drake asked, by way of one last challenge.

Naima laughed gaily.

"Darling,everyone is well after I tend to them. And that's a fact." She smiled sweetly, effectively balancing out the blatant smugness in her words, and skipped back towards the others, humming a nameless tune as she went.

Drake considered her retreating form for a few moments, trying to pinpoint exactly what was so fascinating about her. She was certainly cheerful, and irritatingly so. She was incredibly straightforward as well, which seemed to be a common thread in all the Tevouins he had encountered thus far, though admittedly that was only Naima and Rowe. She was engaging; perhaps that's what struck him so sharply. She was opinionated and inquisitive and intelligent in a mysterious way—the types of things that Drake hadn't encountered very often.

Naima was definitely strange, and in his current mood Drake was annoyed by that. The sooner he could find a way to fix this mess and regain normalcy, the better. With this determination in mind, he followed after Naima.

* * *

By midday, Merchant's Row was incredibly crowded, despite its rather rural location. The dingy, makeshift streets between tents pulsed steadily with persons of every size and color. Cries of merchants selling their goods echoed through the rows, lending the market an air of urgency.

Drake and Ravyn hung back as Rowe and Naima negotiated with a merchant whose boxes of wares were hidden beneath blankets. Naima was laughing about something, or maybe nothing, as was her habit. Rowe paid the man and, with a quill the merchant offered, scribbled something on a piece of parchment.

"I don't like this," Drake muttered.

"Don't like what?" Ravyn asked absently. Her attention was largely focused on the merchant. He had just pulled away one of the blankets, revealing not a box, but a cage.

"Any of it. Rae, we don't even know these people."

"Why can't you just trust them?"

Carefully, the merchant was taking out the occupant of the cage—a large, slumbering falcon.

"How I am I supposed to trust a couple of Tevouins I've known for half a day? You are aware that Tevouins oppose the monarchy?"

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, we aren't exactly in a position of monarchy right now."

The falcon roused from its sleep and readily accepted the small cylinder that the merchant stuffed the parchment in and attached to its leg.

"I'm just having a hard time accepting that people who would readily see Silvern and Asher's government fall are willing to help us."

"Drake, they saved our lives. Couldn't you just give them the benefit of the doubt?" Ravyn glanced at her brother. He was frowning slightly.

"Why do you trust them?" he asked.

Ravyn sighed and squinted up at the sky as the falcon bulleted toward the heavens with its message. Slowly it faded into a dim shadow until finally it had vanished altogether.

"I don't know," Ravyn replied. "I just…feel like this is the way things are supposed to be."

"What exactly does that mean?"

"I don't know!" Ravyn repeated helplessly. "I can't explain it. This--" she waved her arms to indicate everything around them. "All of this…is just right, somehow. And everything we left behind—that was all wrong."

"Ravyn,thisisn't what we were born into."

"But maybe it's where we are meant to be."

Drake didn't know what to say to that. His entire life had been planned out for him, set into an arranged course that he had never deviated from. Until now. He had been unwillingly thrust into this confusing spiral of new and complicated concepts. Books, maps, charts—these things he could understand. But actual places and real people? Motives and character and knowing who to trust? It was an entirely new world. A world he had no experience in, and that was a frightening notion for him.

"You're not making sense…none of this makes sense," Drake muttered.

Ravyn smiled tightly.

"So you don't know what's going to happen next—that's part of the adventure."

"We don't need adventure. We need to get back to Silvern."

"Silvern? You mean where they want to see us both killed? Oh, of course, I can't think of a better place to be at the moment." Her voice carried no little sarcasm.

"Ravyn," Drake said warningly. "We can't stay with the Tevouins; are you insane?"

"Why can't you give them a chance?"

"These aren't stray cats, Rae!" he said exasperatedly. "They're anarchists. Violent anarchists! Don't you remember what happened to King Cyrus's knights? Hundreds—slaughtered."

"I just wish you would stop being so judgmental. How do you know Naima and Rowe had anything to do with that?" Ravyn crossed her arms and glared stubbornly.

Drake rolled his eyes. He knew Ravyn didn't care much about political matters, but he hadn't expected her to disregard these things so ignorantly.

"Just give them a chance, Drake! Have a little faith," Ravyn insisted. "That's all I'm asking."

Against his better judgment, Drake found himself being swayed by her pleading eyes.

"Fine," he sighed dejectedly.

Naima and Rowe had finished their conversation with the merchant and were headed towards them.

"Promise me," Ravyn demanded, refusing to let the manner rest. She knew Drake wouldn't back out if he gave his word.

For that precise reason, Drake hesitated. Did he really want to trust these people?

Naima and Rowe arrived, looking between the two siblings curiously. It was obvious that the conversation was a heavy one.

"Promise?" Ravyn didn't take her eyes off Drake.

"I promise, Rae," Drake said tiredly, looking resigned.

"Alright…" Rowe said tentatively, glancing between them. "What did we miss?"

"Nothing," Ravyn said happily, looking satisfied. "What was all that about?" She gestured toward the merchant, who was currently checking on each of his many birds.

"Oh, sending a message to the camp."

"What did it say?" Drake asked, doing a very commendable job at not sounding suspicious.

Rowe managed to take offense though. He was obviously still a bit on edge about being accused of kidnapping and murder.

"Well," he said lightly, "First I told them to open up the snake pits. Then they're going grab some axes, smear on some war paint, do a sacrifice to the--"

"Rowe, stop it." Naima nailed him in the side with her elbow. "We asked them to send some horses," she said to Drake. "The desert is too harsh to make it to the camp on foot."

"I thought your camps moved often," Ravyn said.

"That's true. We follow the water supply. When one spring dries up, we find another."

"Then how does the falcon know where to go?" Ravyn asked, confused.

Naima looked a bit excited as she answered.

"It's rather brilliant, actually," she said animatedly. "There are several guard posts set in the Great Desert. When we move, we send men to the nearest guard post. The falcons are trained to fly to each post until they find someone, then whoever receives the message rides back to camp."

"Terrific, Naima," Rowe looked irritated. "Let's go ahead and tell them any other trade secrets you can think of. Weaknesses, perhaps? Where we're most vulnerable? And then--"

"Oh, hush," Naima interrupted unconcernedly. "Honestly, you act as if we were part of some secret society of warmongers. It's ridiculous."

"At least I don't act like we're running an open circus," Rowe muttered in return.

"What do we do now?" Drake cut in diplomatically, effectively steering the conversation away from what was certain to be an argument.

"Now?" Naima pulled herself onto the top of a barrel and crossed her ankles. "Now we wait."


	10. Curiosity

"_There's something to be said about a person whose curiosity makes him willing to ask questions with difficult answers. However, there is nothing to be said about a person who is unwilling to seek out these answers for himself."_

_--__Ageless Philosophies for a Perpetual Society_

Saria had a cold. This was just one of the many annoying nuances that marred an otherwise blissful existence. Another such nuance was the half-completed wedding that still loomed overhead. Ever since the messenger returned with the news that Prince Drake had left the Silvernian castle to find Ravyn, her father had been in a sour mood. Cyrus didn't like not knowing exactly where all the pawns in his little games were. Saria had a feeling that he would be displeased with her in that aspect; she had been skipping lessons with Seamstress every day to secretly visit Cadmus in the library.

If Madame Porter found out, she would be confined to her room for at least a week, but Saria couldn't help herself. Listening to Cadmus's stories was much more enjoyable than sewing roses onto handkerchiefs, and Seamstress was getting too old to remember that the princess was supposed to be receiving her tutelage every day at noon. It was a perfect opportunity.

"Back again, Miss Curious?" Cadmus asked with a twinkle in his merry eyes as she slipped through the massive library doors. It was the thirteenth day of the Fox, and Saria had been coming in regularly for a full week now.

"I don't believe I've had enough of your stories quite yet," Saria answered. Her voice sounded strange to her ears, due to a stuffy nose.

"Of course not! You're too curious to ever have enough. Curious, curious, curious." He chuckled and leaped sprightly from his chair behind the desk to pull over a chair for Saria.

Saria positioned herself in front of his desk, where she could prop her elbows on the oak and rest her chin in her hands.

"You were talking about the Forbidden East yesterday," she said, stifling a sneeze and jumping straight to business. There was only an hour to spare before she was expected at lunch, and Madame Porter would certainly be aware if she missed a meal.

"That I was," Cadmus nodded to himself thrice and fished out a book from the clutter on his desktop. His wrinkled fingers maneuvered through the pages expertly, with the air of one who had been reading books his entire life. His white brow was furrowed as he seemed to be searching for something in particular.

"Aha!" he announced triumphantly, jabbing a page with one bony finger. "Here it is. Here, here, here." His head bobbed furiously as he turned the book around so Saria could see.

She was about to complain that she already had a headache due to the cold and didn't want to read, when she saw the picture. It was a fading sketch of what Saria immediately knew to be the Great Divide. She'd never seen a picture of the Divide before, but what else could the massive canyon be? Her finger traced the outline of it in awe. Judging from the minuscule renderings of trees, the Divide was easily as wide as the castle, if not wider.

"Have you seen it?" she asked in wonder.

"Me? Oh, no no no, miss," Cadmus answered, suddenly sounding a bit wistful. "Only in books. But I daresay that's never been enough. Never enough, never enough…" He trailed off forlornly.

"A friend of mine," he continued after a few seconds, with new vigor. "Dear, dear, dear friend. He crossed the wide country, sailed the dark ocean, and made it to the Divide. His wish was to cross into the Forbidden East, but…" Cadmus sighed and shook his head.

"Why didn't he?" Saria asked, almost breathless with anticipation.

"His wife had traveled as far as the seaport at his side, even though she was with child. She stayed behind when he went to the Divide, for she was very weak. My friend received word that her labor was imminent and her survival was unlikely, and though he was in sight of his destination…"

"He went back to be with her?"

Cadmus nodded. Saria let out a sigh; her heart was throbbing.

"And his wife?"

"She died, with her head resting in her husband's lap and her infant son in her arms."

Saria felt as if she were going to cry. It was so bittersweet, just like a fairy tale--only it had really happened. Her eyes began to water, though she suspected that was the cold's doing.

"My friend never left the seaport town again, for that's where they buried his wife."

"He never went back to the Divide? Never crossed over to the East?"

"He never did. But he sent me this book years later," Cadmus smiled. "Much, much, much knowledge in its pages—all he saw and heard and smelled and tasted and thought on his journey toward the Forbidden East."

"What's in the Forbidden East?" It was a question that plagued her every day, for reasons she couldn't grasp.

"So many questions," Cadmus chuckled. "I only know of rumors, Miss Curious."

"Tell me."

"Cures, they say, for every disease and ailment. And magic, breathed down by the Blessed One himself. And all sorts of people, both strange and fierce. That is all I know, Miss. Just rumors. Nothing for sure. Nothing, nothing, nothing."

Saria nodded, letting loose a breath of contentment. She was satisfied with rumors; a vague notion of the unknown was better than none at all.

"Don't ever let rumors be enough," Cadmus admonished, as if reading her thoughts. "Books, books, books—I let them be everything, and now I wake up and realize I've read everything and seen nothing. Don't be happy with rumors. To actually see the world! That is the greatest prize." He thumped his hand three times on the book between them for emphasis. "He saw the world, what we see is merely shadows—sketches and words! Not enough! Not enough! Not enough!" He sighed, looking more saddened than Saria had ever seen him before. "Never enough…"

Saria wasn't sure what to say. He often got excited when he told a story, but never as emphatic as that. And she had never seen even a hint of gloominess about him before.

"Could you come back tomorrow, miss? I feel tired." Cadmus shook his head slowly, suddenly looking very old.

Saria felt sorry for him and wanted to say something encouraging, but no words came. Instead she nodded and replaced her chair. She said a soft goodbye as she pulled the door closed behind her, but Cadmus was already sound asleep, his balding head resting on the book of his dear friend's adventures.

* * *

Half a day's ride south of the Asherian castle there rested a manor. In the manor there were fourteen servants, three gardeners, two stable boys, two cooks, one caretaker, and one master of the house.

Despite the recent good weather, the caretaker was in a sour mood. He had spent the morning seeking out each servant individually to personally admonish them for any reason he could conjure. He spent twelve minutes complaining about the gardens, and nine and a half minutes berating the stable boys because the straw on the stall floors was uneven. The cooks hid in the pantry and managed to escape their fate, and so the caretaker was forced to turn his negative attentions elsewhere.

"Stand up straight, young sir. Don't fidget, and what in the gods' names are you wearing?"

The master of the house looked heavenward and released a sigh.

"I haven't the time today, Leonard. Can we skip to the part where you tell me to tend to my studies and I subsequently ignore you and go riding anyway?"

"Shame, Alden. I was told to monitor your studies. Your father did not intend my position to be one of mockery. What would he think?"

"Sadly, no one knows. In case you haven't noticed, my father isn't here." Alden stifled a laugh. One of the servants was mimicking Leonard behind his back, matching the red-faced caretaker expression for expression and motion for motion.

The oblivious Leonard looked suddenly smug.

"Well, we'll just have to ask Master Grey what he thinks. He arrives today."

The servant behind Leonard looked shocked. The maid who was eavesdropping in the corner almost dropped the candlestick she was pretending to polish. Alden blinked.

"He's coming here? Today?"

"Are you deaf? That's what I said. Now tend to your studies." Leonard seemed to assume that no immediate refusal from Alden meant that he intended to obey. So the caretaker clasped his hands behind his back and turned to march away. He almost walked straight into the servant.

"Why are you standing there?" he snapped. "Have you nothing to do?"

"Sorry, sir," the servant said, looking down to hide his smile. "I was about to…polish the…thing…" He hurried toward the stairs before Leonard could interrogate him further. Leonard harrumphed and headed for the kitchen to look for the cooks again.

Alden scratched the back of his head and looked up to the ornate ceiling in thought. The last time he'd seen his father was five years ago, on his twelfth birthday. Grey had been the General then, and only stayed for a few hours. It was an awkward few hours, to say the least. Alden had been relieved to see his father ride away.

"You think Leo was lying?" The caretaker's mocker came back as soon as Leonard left.

Alden shrugged.

"He ain't lying." The maid abandoned her charade with the candlestick and came over. "I seen the messenger myself this mornin'"

"And you couldn't have warned me, Rebecca?" Alden asked dryly.

Rebecca waved her polishing cloth at him.

"I didn't know he was comin' today!"

"Well, maybe you should get better at eavesdropping," Alden said.

Rebecca turned her nose up.

"A lady doesn't eavesdrop."

"If you're a lady, then I'm lord of the province," the servant said with a sly grin.

"Hush, Joss," Rebecca said crossly, and turned to Alden. "What are you gonna do?"

"What do you mean? I'm going to go riding. Then I'll come home, spend a few hours in the parlor pretending to talk to my father, and then he'll leave."

"I don't see what you have against the general," Rebecca muttered.

"First of all, he's not a general anymore. Secondly, I don't have anything against him."

"Just because you worship his every footstep doesn't mean the rest of us do, Beck," Joss chimed in.

"Hush!" Rebecca snapped again, this time turning red.

Alden and Joss both snickered.

"Just 'cause I have respect for my betters, don't mean--" Rebecca began.

"If you had respect for your betters, you wouldn't have put that mouse in Alden's bed last week," Joss pointed out gleefully.

"That was you?" Alden narrowed his eyes at Rebecca who glared ferociously at Joss.

"Be careful, Joss," Rebecca said, waving her rag at his nose. "I'd sure hate to see somethin' nasty turn up in your bed. What would Tara think if she found out her big tough Joss screams like a girl?" Rebecca smiled in her country-girl way that was somehow entirely innocent and venomous at the same time. She dropped into a mock curtsy to punctuate the statement and sauntered off.

Joss crossed his arms and made a face. Alden just laughed again.

"Well, I'm going riding. Don't you have a thing to polish?"

"I'll go polish something when you tend to your studies, _Master_ Alden." Joss put extra sarcasm behind the title.

"Fine…truce," Alden conceded.

"Truce. See you tonight? Beck seems to think that it's her night to finally win a game of knucklebones. Not likely," Joss scoffed.

"Count me in." Alden put out his hand to meet Joss's in their customary half-shake. Then the two youths parted ways, one leaving to neglect his studies and the other his chores.

* * *

The first thing that struck Saria as strange about the cat was the way it seemed unthreatened by her approach. She was in the gardens, which were well endowed by way of stray cats scrounging for food. But this particular stray cat sat neatly in the center of the stone path, staring at her with unblinking eyes as she neared.

Most cats would hiss and hurry off at the first hint of humans due to the tendency of the gardeners to issue a solid kick to the rump of any feline that dared set a paw in their flowerbeds. The grey cat in the path apparently hadn't encountered any such experience.

"Hello there, kitty-cat," she said, kneeling gently to greet him. The flurry of her skirts seemed to disconcert him, for he stood and backed up, a hiss ready in his throat. Saria held out her fingers to reassure him.

The feline stepped closer and allowed her hand to caress his head. His amber eyes were bright, even in the bleaching midday sun. Saria was surprised at how incredibly soft his gray fur was to the touch; it was like velvet. She stroked him happily, drawing as much pleasure from it as he was. The cat meowed; it was peculiar sound, raspy and cracked, more like a croak than anything.

Saria couldn't help but giggle softly to herself. It was a peculiar, but rather endearing sound.

"New friend?"

Saria stood and whirled around, a smile catching her features instantaneously.

"Jackson!" she cried excitedly, throwing her arms around him. He had been doing poorly the past week, and the doctors had demanded isolated bed rest. Saria hadn't seen him for days. He looked better now, though. Maybe better than he had been in a long while. There was actually some color in his cheeks.

"It's a good day," Jackson said contently, returning her embrace with a vigor he hadn't shown for years.

"How's that?" Saria couldn't keep the smile off her face at seeing her brother so happy. The cat, appalled by the redirection of attention, began nudging her ankle with his forehead and meowing politely in his peculiar way. Saria scooped him up gently and scratched his ears.

"Do you know what happens four days from now?"

Saria wracked her brain frantically, trying to figure out what holiday she had forgotten.

"Uhhh…" she lagged.

Jackson laughed.

"You should really pay more attention to political affairs, little sister. It's the annual economic counsel!"

Saria couldn't imagine why that had him so excited. She didn't know much, but what she did know about the counsel was that basically a bunch of old men gathered together and talked about what was wrong with Asher's economy and how they could fix it. Then they would present their advice to the king, who would supposedly do something about it. "Supposedly" being the key word; Saria doubted that King Cyrus knew anything more about the counsel than she did. He didn't put a lot of stock in the opinions of others.

"That's…" she tried to come up with an encouraging word to describe it, but failed. "I'm sorry, why is this exciting?" she asked instead, stifling a sneeze.

Jackson looked exceptionally pleased as he made his announcement.

"Yours truly has managed to obtain a seat in the counsel. I get to attend!" He looked positively overjoyed.

Ordinarily, the prince of Asher would have a seat in the counsel by default, to serve as a relatively unbiased ear of the monarchy in the proceedings. But Cyrus had never granted Jackson permission to attend before, for reasons Saria always attributed to nothing more than Cyrus's stubborn prejudice against his sickly son.

"That's so wonderful, Jackson!" she said sincerely, though it struck her as unfair that Jackson was just now being awarded a right that should have been his in the first place. "How did you get it past Father?"

"I have Perry to thank for that," Jackson said. "I don't know how he managed it, but he told me the news this morning."

With the smile on his face, the day suddenly seemed brighter. Saria felt small shivers of joy race down her spine and she hugged the cat tighter, much to the feline's displeasure. The cat issued a cracked meow and pushed at her arms with his small grey paws.

"So where did this fellow come from?" Jackson asked, reaching out to pet the anxious feline.

Before Saria could answer, the cat went into a frantic fit, hissing and clawing until Saria finally released him. With one graceful bound, the cat disappeared into the thick tangles of flowers, not leaving so much as a displaced petunia in his wake. Saria brushed her fingers along the thin scratches left on her forearms and frowned.

"What got into him?" She asked aloud, wondering how she was going to explain the scratches to Madam Porter. Maybe it would be best to change into a gown with long sleeves.

"He's a stray, Saria, not a stuffed kitten." Jackson raised an eyebrow, amused.

"He seemed nice," Saria defended weakly.

Jackson chuckled and shook his head.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go to lunch."

Saria sneezed twice in reply. She groaned a bit in misery; every time she sneezed a throb of pain would explode in her forehead. If only she could be rid of this stupid cold, then the day would be a perfect one.

But at least Jackson was feeling better. Saria said a silent thanks to The Blessed, because it only seemed proper, and then she and Jackson headed indoors.

Behind them, the gardens bustled silently with growth and life. Flowers stretched toward the sunshine. Butterflies chased the breeze. Spiders crafted their silk. And a gray cat with velveteen fur found a seat on the edge of a stone fountain. His tail twitched restlessly and his keen amber eyes were unblinking as he watched the two royal siblings disappear around the bend.


	11. Tevouins

"_I think that by now it is clear what the Tevouins have contributed to society—war and demoralized values. They hide in their desert holes, training up children to fight as savages. They harbor no family values, no moral virtue! There is nothing the Tevouins possess that we cannot also find in a pack of rabid dogs. We do not suffer rabid dogs to roam our lands; we must not suffer these desert devils."_

_--"Essays Regarding the Tevouin Threat to Society"_

Rumors in the "civilized" world had the Tevouin camp painted as a sort of orgy replete with sacrilegious rituals and violent ceremonies. Depending on the source of the gossip, the Tevouins did anything from sacrificing pigeons and drinking the blood to murdering virgins under the full moon.

Of course, as is the case with most rumors, the majority of the population knew these whispers to be utterly exaggerated. But that didn't stop the stories from spreading and growing more elaborate with each tale. And, as is also the case with most rumors, the lines between truth and fiction eventually became blurred until most citizens no longer knew what to think of the largely secluded Desert Dwellers.

Drake personally hoped for some of the rumors to be true, because then he would have a reason for the ill-founded distrust he still harbored toward the Tevouins. Ravyn was right; it usually wasn't like him to pass judgment without due evidence. In this particular instance, though, his logic seemed to have deserted him.

The sun was resting low in the sky when the Tevouin camp finally came into view.

"So nice to be home!" Naima announced in a sing-song voice, standing straight up in her stirrups as if to get the best possible view.

"If it's so nice, maybe you should stop running off to get burned as a witch and whatnot," Rowe said, looking heavenward.

"I had to go to Dunn's Hill! The miller's children were very sick. Imagine how desolate their mother would be without them. I had to help."

"You can't be much help to anyone if you're a pile of ash."

Naima didn't try to argue with him. She just shook her head with a soft smile on her lips and started humming to herself.

"What's that?" Ravyn asked as they passed by a large circular patch of withered plant life. The vine-like stalks were a dead gray color, in stark contrast to the red desert sands.

"Someone decided that planting flowers was a useful way to spend a few days." Rowe nodded toward the back of Naima's head and rolled his eyes again.

"Seems to be a rather hopeless endeavor in this terrain," Drake observed as they left behind the withered attempt at a garden.

Naima just kept humming, the smile on her lips curving a bit deeper.

As they rode into the outskirts of the Tevouin camp, a general rush of murmurs began to ripple ahead of them. Other than the soft roar of the news flooding the massive camp though, life seemed to continue normally as they passed through the rows between tents. Elderly women were at work scouring pots and beating the sand out of blankets. A group of men were working intently on a damaged wagon. Children raced in between the rows, laughing and shrieking with joy at their nameless game.

"Naima's back!" One of the louder children belted out as he skidded to a stop in front of them. Three more children tumbled into him from sheer momentum and the group wrestled itself off the ground, each member desperate to be the first to greet Naima.

Naima laughed and slid off her borrowed horse, stepping lithely on her toes since the sand was still hot to her bare feet. She was immediately bombarded by at least ten children of various sizes and colors. The lot of them giggled with glee as a familiar breeze glided through their midst, stirring up red sand in a spectacle that sparkled in the dusk sun.

"Hi, Rowe," a small girl looking to be about ten drawled as she popped out of a nearby tent. Behind her, a gaggle of her peers whispered and jabbed and blushed with typical childish adulation.

"And how are my best ladies doing?" Rowe asked with a humoring smile as he dismounted.

The girl at the forefront blushed furiously and picked at one of her braids.

"Fine," she managed, "I--"

"Rowe! Check it out--my first bow!" A disheveled boy crashed into the conversation in front of the love-struck girl, breathless from running and waving his bow around proudly. Some of his friends barreled after him, clambering to get a word in the conversation. The girls started in as well, trying to beat out the sweaty boys for Rowe's attention.

Ravyn couldn't help but smile. There was something very warming about the atmosphere here. It was like a massive family, and a part of Ravyn yearned for that sort of connection with these people she knew so little about. She glanced at Drake, who was being very quiet, and nudged him.

"Come on now, it isn't all that bad. You look as if we're riding to the gallows," she whispered.

Drake just gave her a look.

Ravyn laughed and dismounted to stand next to Rowe.

"Who's she?" demanded the girl with braids, regarding Ravyn suspiciously.

"A princess," Rowe said with a smirk. "So mind your manners or…" He tightened an imaginary noose around his neck and winked. A collective gasp erupted from the youths, followed by not-so-quiet whispers.

"He's only joking, of course."

"I think he's serious!"

"What if we've already done somethin' wrong?"

The entire group took a uniform cautionary step backwards. Ravyn crossed her arms and glared at Rowe, who only shrugged and smiled.

"Rowe! Stop tormenting the children and get to the Circle. Astra will be wanting a word with all of you." One of the nearby grandmothers waved the pan she was scouring in a scolding gesture.

"Right, right." Rowe sighed and waved off his admirers. "Go set a fire or something. And take care of the horses while you're at it." The youths scurried off and Rowe glanced at Naima, who was currently hip deep in small children. "Naima, you're coming too. Bringing along Their Royal Highnesses was your idea."

Naima stopped mid-sentence in the tale she was weaving and reluctantly bid her audience goodbye.

"Honestly, Rowe, sometimes you're so tiring," she announced.

"The same could be said about you," he returned dryly and started walking. Ravyn followed, eager to see more of the bustling camp.

Naima tugged on Drake's sleeve.

"Come on then," she said brightly. "Loads more to see."

Drake swallowed the numerous sarcastic remarks that weighed on his tongue and dismounted. Naima immediately attached herself to his arm and starting dragging him alongside her. She began pointing out every detail of the Tevouin camp as they passed.

Despite himself, Drake was engrossed by the scores of new information he was absorbing. It was one thing to read a book, but to walk through the actual reality of something, to step on the actual sand, to feel the actual heat, to taste the actual air—that was another thing entirely.

Several paces ahead of them, Ravyn was feeling much the same way. Her green eyes danced across the environment, taking in every detail. A part of her realized that this was a forbidden territory, and that made crossing it so much sweeter. The tents ranged from the most mundane canvas to the most bizarre and spectacular rainbows of silk imaginable. Goats and sheep wandered happily amidst the rows, content to nip at the occasional child who ventured to close in a game of chase.

And the people! Never had she seen such diversity. There were dark-haired descendants of Silvern, their pale skin colored gently by the desert sun's kiss; lighter-haired Asherians, their rosy complexions sharpened by the heat; and even quite a few from the far northern countries, with hair ranging from the darkest of red to the most fiery of orange.

Ravyn felt eyes fixated on her as she passed. She wondered if anyone recognized her, and silently hoped that they did not. If Drake was right about the Tevouin attitude toward monarchy…

She quickly shook the thought from her head and forced herself to dwell on something else, like how enchanting the setting sun looked as it glistened on the sand dunes.

"Quite a step down from a castle, I'm afraid," Rowe stated.

"I think it's perfect," Ravyn breathed.

Rowe laughed shortly.

"Only someone who didn't help pitch about two hundred of these tents would think so. Trust me, desert dwelling gets old." He paused, as if reflecting. "But it's a good life, I suppose…" He glanced over and saw that Ravyn had been sidetracked.

She watched in utter fascination as a man hunched over the wrist of a lad with a needle and a jar of what looked like ink. The boy bit his lip and clenched his fist as the needle methodically pierced his skin to allow the ink to seep through. His face was one of undeniable triumph as the process ended though, and he beamed proudly at Ravyn and Rowe.

"A lightning bolt, for swiftness in battle!" he announced proudly. The man wiped off the excess ink and sure enough, a black lighting bolt was on the boy's skin.

"And what battle would that be, Jason?" Rowe asked dryly.

Jason shrugged and hopped to his feet.

"It's impressive though, isn't it?" He held his wrist to the light and admired it happily.

"Is it…permanent?" Ravyn asked, unsure.

"What would be the point if it wasn't?" Jason asked sardonically.

"Go home," Rowe smacked him smartly on the back of the head. "Your mother will have your hide."

"Not if she doesn't find out."

"Go, before I tell her myself."

Jason looked wounded, but ran off.

The man with the needle chuckled hoarsely to himself.

"What about you, lass?" he asked Ravyn. "Fancy a bit of ink?"

"No, she doesn't," Drake said firmly as he and Naima caught up.

"Maybe next time, Horace," Rowe said with a smile. "But perhaps you should stop passing it around so freely. Jason's mother is going to be sour."

Horace shrugged.

"I just jab the needle. Who or why ain't my concern."

"Little Jason?" Naima shook her head and sighed. "Not long ago he was chasing goats."

"And now he fancies himself a warrior."

"Remind you of anyone?" Naima teased.

Rowe rolled his eyes and started walking again. Everyone followed suit. Only Ravyn gave one last glance to Horace and his ink, with a glint of mischief in her eyes and a bare smile on her lips.

At the center of the Tevouin camp, the harsh desert sands gave way to an oasis of thin grass and leafy trees. The massive fronds of the palms dipped low to touch the glistening pool of water in their center. The area was bustling with activity and chatter.

"The Circle," Naima informed Drake and Ravyn. "The luminaries always pitch their tents at the center of camp, so everyone can find them."

"Luminaries?" Drake questioned.

"Leaders. We're going to see Astra now."

"Who's Astra?" Ravyn asked.

"She's the most influential luminary."

"And she's bound to be a bit touchy about this whole 'bring the Silvern monarchs back to camp' idea of Naima's," Rowe added as they stopped in front of a dark red tent with the Tevouin seal flying above it in the breeze. "So all of you stay out here while I talk to her."

He pointed firmly at Naima and then at the ground where she was standing in case she didn't get the picture and disappeared inside the tent.

"I don't think I quite understand your system of government here," Drake said with a slight frown. He wasn't even aware that the Tevouins operated under a system of government.

Naima sighed.

"It's all dreadfully boring and complicated…"

"Then Drake should be fascinated," Ravyn inserted, earning herself a withering glance from her brother.

"But I'll give you the condensed version," Naima finished with a smile. "For every hundred people there is a captain elected to see to their needs and speak for their interests in councils. The captains report every couple of weeks to the luminaries—there are only about five elected luminaries. And every three months there is a general assembly, where all the people come together and decisions are made concerning new captains or luminaries."

Drake nodded slowly.

"Interesting," he said, but made no indication as to further opinion.

"Rowe was elected captain at the last assembly," Naima said, beaming. "The second youngest besides Astra herself. I imagine in a few years he has a chance at being a luminary." She checked herself suddenly. "But don't tell him I told you. He doesn't like me to mention it."

"Mention what?" Rowe asked, emerging from the tent.

"Nothing," Naima chimed immediately, immune to his suspicious glare.

"Astra is in the Outskirts, at the training field," Rowe announced, glancing at the setting sun. "We can make it before the common meal."

"Good, I'm positively famished," Naima said.

On that point, everyone absolutely agreed.

The Outskirts were exactly as their name suggested: the outskirts of the Tevouin camp. One particular area consisted of several ragged archery targets, swordplay dummies, and fencing arenas blocked off with lengths of rope and empty barrels.

Only one arena was currently in use. A young man and woman were circling each other carefully, swords at the ready. Their only spectator was a slender woman who paced methodically, her arms crossed and her eyes sharp on the dueling pair.

"Dobbs!" she shouted as the first strike was issued. "Why do you always open from the left! Every single time! You might as well go ahead and tell her where you're coming from!"

"Hello, Astra," Rowe said.

"Rowe," Astra acknowledged, but didn't so much as glance away from her students. "Kat! The wrist! It's all in the wrist!" Astra waved her own wrist vehemently at the dueling female.

"Astra," Rowe prodded, "Do you have a minute?"

"Of course, always." She still didn't look in his direction. "Dobbs! Quit going left! Try going to the bloody right for once!" She stomped her foot exasperatedly into the sand and threw her hands into the air. Ravyn caught sight of several dark tattoos marking her skin beneath the sleeves of her tunic.

"Ummm…now?" Rowe waved his hand in front of her face.

"I'm perfectly capable of doing more than one thing at once Rowe," Astra waved him away irritably, her hawkish eyes still glued to the action. She seemed very vivacious in her words and manner, though the thin wrinkles settling into her face revealed that she was coming along in her years.

"Kat!" she barked, attention completely redirected as the mock duel reached an intense climax. "How many times does he have to leave his side open until you decide to—Dobbs! What did I tell you about going left! Kat, take the opening before I come in there and do it for you!" Astra was hanging over the rope now, bellowing instructions until her cheeks were flushed. Her dark hair was extremely short, and currently sticking out in all directions due to the hand she was running through it constantly with excited energy.

"Astra," Rowe complained. "This is sort of important."

"You brought the Silvern monarchs," Astra stated, actually granting him the briefest of glances.

"How did you know?"

"I make it my business to know things." Astra reluctantly pulled herself away from the rope and turned to face Rowe.

Drake stepped forward.

"I bring much honor from the court of Silvern," he said evenly. It was only proper; if Astra was a luminary, then she was the closest thing to royalty that the Tevouin community had.

"And much honor to you and your kin," Astra replied without blinking. "You and your sister have nothing to fear in this camp."

"You're Silvernian," Drake observed.

Astra laughed.

"I was once upon a time. Now the Tevouin are my people."

"You're Lady Estella," Ravyn interjected suddenly. "I recognize you from your portrait that hangs in the parlor in the east wing!"

"That old thing?" Astra laughed. "And I haven't gone by Estella since I last stepped foot out of that wretched castle."

"You're infamous among the ladies. How you stole your brother's sword and one of the king's horses and ran away to the Great Desert—it's incredible." Ravyn looked awestruck.

"And now I'm the most wanted female in the civilized world," Astra chuckled. "It's—Oy! Dobbs! If you dodge left one more time, I'm going to come in there and finish you myself! You hear me, Kat? You should have finished this already!" She looked back and smiled graciously. "Excuse my terrible manners, but those two are my brightest pupils and I have to keep a close eye on them. With the right focus, Kat will soon be able to take you easily, Rowe." Astra winked.

Rowe shrugged.

"That's what you said about Garren and Lena, and how did I handle them last week?" Rowe squinted toward the sky in mock contemplation. "Was it at the same time? Why, I do believe it was…"

Astra shook her head and grinned.

"Good to see your promotion to captain hasn't gone to your head."

"Astra, will Drake and Ravyn be able to stay?" Naima asked.

"We aren't staying," Drake inserted politely before Astra had a chance to answer. "We need to return to Silvern as soon as possible."

"To Silvern?" Astra raised her eyebrow quizzically. "I was under the impression that you aren't exactly welcome there any longer?"

Drake sighed, tired of people pointing that out to him.

"I'm not going to leave it to crumble under sedition."

Astra nodded.

"Admirable," she said slowly. "I was sorry to hear about Grey. I knew him well before I left. He was a good man…"

"Well, not anymore," Drake said, looking down. There was a touch of ice in his tone.

Astra sighed heavily.

"No, I suppose not."

Steel resounded mightily in a crescendo, then silenced suddenly. Kat had disarmed Dobbs.

"It's about time!" Astra announced, looking over the sweat-drenched, sand-covered duo with a critical eye. "Dobbs! You dodged to the left, didn't you? That's how she disarmed you?"

Dobbs looked at his feet glumly.

"Yes'm," he answered dutifully. Kat grinned widely, but immediately sobered when Astra's sharp eyes flew to her.

"Kat! In a real battle, you'd be dead if it took you that long to figure out your opponent's weakness. And I won't always be standing outside the ropes to tell you what it is."

"I was trying to give him a sporting chance," Kat insisted, earning a scowl from Dobbs.

"That's tripe!" Dobbs declared. "You couldn't get in a decent strike, admit it!"

"Oh, don't be a sore loser," Kat muttered, pushing back a lock of her fiery red hair.

"Enough!" Astra snapped. "Dobbs, go back to camp. Kat, with me." Astra proceeded to drag the reluctant girl several yards away and started lecturing her in a hushed tone.

"I remember that talk," Rowe said. "Almost gave me nightmares. That woman can sure be scary when she wants to be."

"What's she telling her?" Ravyn asked. Astra's words were inaudible, but the severity in her features was undeniable.

"What do you think? Stop being a pompous, arrogant prig and start realizing that you still have a lot to learn. That's what she told me anyway."

"Did it work?" Ravyn grinned.

"Astra can be pretty convincing. But if the rumors about Kat are true, then she's not quite as amiable and understanding as I am."

"Good to know you've beaten the pride." Ravyn nudged him with her elbow and even Drake had to smile at the sarcasm.

"Thank you."

Astra and Kat came back over, but from the dark look on Kat's face, the girl wasn't quite through with the conversation.

"I beat him, didn't I? I've beaten everyone."

"That's not enough! In a true fight, the stakes are higher and it isn't always skill that wins out. In the end, you have to be able to see your opponent's weakness."

"I don't bloody care if Dobbs dodges left, right, or upside down! I can still win."

"Watch your mouth with me, girl. And swordplay isn't about you and your skills; it's about your opponent. Always the opponent. Until you realize that, you won't be signing on to join the ranks."

"That's not fair!" Kat cried. "I'm the best in my age class. I've even beaten Garren and Lena."

Rowe snorted and Kat's furious gaze flew to him.

"Shut up, Rowe! The only reason I haven't beaten you is because you haven't the nerve to get in the ring with me!"

Rowe frowned.

"Hold on. I haven't gotten in the ring with you because I refuse to fight a thirteen year old girl."

"Typical excuse! You--"

"Be quiet, both of you!" Astra interrupted. "Rowe, get in the ring."

Rowe's jaw dropped slightly and both Ravyn and Naima giggled.

"Astra!" he objected. "I have better things to do than--"

"Ring. Now!" Astra pointed her finger at his nose then jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the roped-off arena.

"I don't have my sword," Rowe said. Astra yanked her own from its scabbard and shoved it into his hands. Her patience had apparently been pushed to the limit by Kat, and now she wasn't accepting excuses from anyone.

Rowe grudgingly ducked under the rope into the ring and took his position at the far end.

"Kat, listen to me," Astra said, a dangerous calm suddenly lacing her tone. "Rowe has one weakness. One mistake he makes in every duel he's ever fought. If you figure it out, he'll be disarmed in a minute flat. If you don't, he will have you on your back before you can blink."

"I can beat him," Kat said, not looking as if she had paid much attention to Astra's instruction. "But when I do, you have to let me sign on this season. Promise?"

Astra watched her silently for a few seconds and nodded.

"Very well."

Kat smiled in triumph and raced into the ring with renewed vigor. Everyone immediately migrated to the ropes for the best possible view.

"Ready to lose, Rowe?" Kat taunted with a haughty smile.

Rowe just looked at Astra as if to ask why she felt the need to torture him so. He thought he'd left behind the petty competition when he'd signed on to the ranks.

"Begin," Astra said, by way of reply. Immediately the two began to circle slowly.

"Come on, Kat," Astra whispered to herself. "Please, just pay attention. For once, just--"

Kat made the first move, a rapid attack with two strikes that fell so swiftly they almost seemed to be in unison. There was no denying that she had fierce skill. Rowe blocked the first and sidestepped the second.

Astra looked heavenward, as if anticipating what was coming next.

"I wish for once she could just listen…"

In the blink of an eye, Rowe locked his sword with Kat's and kicked her feet out from under her. Kat gasped from the ground's impact as she landed on her back. She threw her hand out to grasp her sword, but stopped. Rowe's sword tip was an inch from her nose.

"How did you block me?" Kat demanded breathlessly.

"I watched you."

"But I didn't even shift my weight! I'm always careful not to shift my weight."

Rowe smiled.

"You tilted your sword slightly, first to the left and then to the right. You were playing out the move in your mind." He removed his sword and offered his hand to help her up, but Kat ignored it and climbed to her feet.

"Nicely done, Rowe," Astra said heavily, stepping into the ring.

"Please," he said dryly. "Don't sound too happy for me."

Astra ignored him.

"Why did he beat you, Kat?" she asked quietly.

"Because he saw my mistake," Kat answered sullenly.

"And why didn't you see his?"

Kat shrugged.

"Because you didn't look for it! You dove right into the duel without first considering his weaknesses. How many times must I tell you? If you don't watch your opponent, then you've already lost."

Kat crossed her arms and looked into the distance, refusing to make eye contact with Astra.

"Go back to camp," Astra ordered softly. "I'll see you here next week."

As Kat stormed off, Astra turned to look at Drake.

"Stay as long or as little as you desire. If you have any questions, I'll be around." She smiled half-heartedly and walked off.

"Astra doesn't like to think she's failed in teaching someone," Rowe said, by way of explaining Astra's sudden unhappy state.

"Why is Kat so…insufferable?" Ravyn asked.

"She thinks she has something to prove," Rowe said with a shrug. "She's an orphan, with one older brother being her only family. Two years ago her brother deserted his comrades during a rather nasty little skirmish with some of King Cyrus's knights. No one's heard from him since, and she has yet to live down the bad name."

"That's terrible!" Ravyn announced.

"I never heard about King Cyrus sending knights two years ago," Drake said.

Rowe laughed shortly.

"You'd be surprised at how much King Cyrus does without alerting the general public. Why do you think we're constantly training more people to fight? Believe me, we don't look for war. Cyrus brings it right to our doorstep every chance he gets. But I imagine that's not how it's spelled out in your history books."

Drake didn't reply, but a hint of light caught fire in his eyes and for the first time he allowed himself to consider the possibility that the general beliefs held about the Tevouins weren't entirely accurate.

Naima was the only one to notice and she smiled brightly.

"See?" she said, prodding him in the arm with her finger. "I told you we aren't what you think. Now let's go eat some dinner."


	12. Change

"_Change, that fickle fellow,_

_Kind to some but ne'er to all,_

_He tugs our chain, yet lets us free,_

_But back to him we crawl."_

_--The poet Ettne_

Despite the moon's hold of the desert sky, the night was still very young in the Tevouin camp. Hundreds of lanterns hanging from the palms lit up the Circle in a dazzling effect. The pool of water in the center reflected the lights a thousand times over, so they danced and glistened with every ripple. It was as if the stars in the heavens above had come down to taste the crisp desert air.

The common meal had evolved through the generations, until it was not so much a mere meal as it was a celebration of another day well-lived. And the Tevouins knew how to celebrate.

Circles of dancers spun to the rhythm of drums and pipes, which were currently coaxing a lively tune through the air. The rich aroma of roasting meats and succulent sweets mingled with the sounds of laughter and merriment. The Tevouins enjoyed a rich trading relationship with Merchant's Row, and as a result, the common meal was never short on tasty dishes.

Drake stood silently a safe distance from the excitement, observing the crowds with cool green eyes. He didn't feel as if he belonged to this fast-paced world of swordplay and laughter that composed the Tevouin camp, but it fascinated him all the same. For the moment he was content with watching it from the outside, which, in his opinion, made for better judgments anyway.

And judgments were exactly what Drake was trying to decide upon. This morning, the Tevouins were the enemy, and in the course of several minutes they became saviors. Yesterday they were a warmongering tribe of savages; today they were a breathing culture, with concerns and traditions just like any other civilized people. Drake didn't know what to think about any of it, and so he merely watched.

"Drake! Why are you just standing here?" Ravyn came up beside him, looking breathless and exhilarated. She had been dancing for almost an hour, taking frequent breaks to help the children chase a stray goat that had managed to elude capture all evening. The children had reconciled the fact that she was a princess with the idea that she had as many interesting tales as Naima to tell. And hers involved knights and castles. Ravyn was their new best friend.

"What are you wearing?" Drake asked with a raised eyebrow, not bothering to answer her question.

Ravyn smiled broadly and spun around. In place of her simple, colorless tunic and vest, she was wearing a long violet blouse with flowing sleeves that trailed gracefully with every movement of her arms. A crimson vest was laced across her midsection in a manner not unlike a corset and several brightly colored scarves were tied around her waist. Her black locks were kept off her forehead with a silk scarf the color of her wintergreen eyes.

She looked every bit a Tevouin. It surprised Drake how easily she merged with the culture, but then, Ravyn had always been wild at heart and judging from the intense excitement of the celebration, that was a trait that most Tevouins possessed.

"What do you think?" she asked with a grin, not really expecting him to have anything positive to say. Her new clothes were a far cry from the mundane, mirthless fashion of Silvern, and Drake was nothing if not Silvernian.

"You look…happy," he said, feeling a tug at his heart. His sister looked truly happy, which had not been the case for quite some time. Ravyn almost always had a smile to give, but Drake had known for a long while that she was struggling. The whole mess of his arranged marriage had hit her especially hard.

The thought of the marriage that waited in Asher made Drake's stomach turn. Maybe being "dead" wasn't so bad after all. Staying with the Tevouins meant he was free from his father's deal with King Cyrus. But Drake forced the notion away; he couldn't abandon Silvern. He'd given up everything for that country-- his childhood, his dreams, and his freedom. He couldn't walk away now.

"You don't look happy," Ravyn said, tugging on his arm. "Come and dance. If you insist on dragging us both back to Silvern, then you can at least enjoy your freedom while it lasts."

"I'd rather not, Rae," Drake peeled her fingers off his arm.

"You're a dead stick," she complained. "I'm sending Naima over here to make you have some fun."

Drake looked pained.

"You had better not. Can't you see I'm trying to enjoy some peace?"

Ravyn laughed.

"Why don't you like her? I think she's sweet."

"Ravyn, she talks to herself. That's unstable."

"She's talking to the fey!"

"Alright, so she talks to imaginary creatures. That's much better." Drake rolled his eyes.

"How do you know their imaginary?" Ravyn demanded. "You saw as well as I did what happened at Dunn's Hill. Swords don't decide on their own to start floating."

"I'm not denying that she has some sort of ability, maybe even a magical ability." Drake looked pained to admit it; he wasn't a big subscriber to notions of magic. "But as for otherworldly creatures that only Naima can see and hear? Face it, Ravyn. She's unstable."

"I think you're wrong. Naima isn't insane," Ravyn declared flatly.

"Thank you, darling." Naima slipped through from behind them and turned to face them with a smile. Her brown locks looked to have been tamed slightly by a brush, though they still fell in wild spirals around her face. She had traded in her grey gown for a green one that was just as simple, though its color seemed to make her hazel eyes shine all the brighter. Her feet were still bare and her cheeks were flushed from the excitement.

"Naima!" Ravyn said quickly. "Drake didn't mean--"

"Don't worry, I'm quite used to it by now," Naima winked at Drake then turned to Ravyn. "You look stunning, darling. I'm so glad we got you out of those boring clothes! We'll have to see to your brother next."

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you," Drake said.

"We'll see…" Naima smiled, and jumped quickly to the next subject, as was her habit. "How are your hands, Ravyn?"

"They don't hurt very badly anymore," Ravyn held up her bandaged hands to examine them.

"All the same, we should probably tend to them again. Rowe was right, you're lucky they haven't gotten infected."

"I think they're fine," Ravyn said.

"Ravyn, let her treat them again," Drake ordered, nudging her forward.

"Why, Drake, I'm surprised you trust your sister in the hands of a lunatic," Naima said with a clever smile.

"I believe the term I used was 'unstable.'"

"Drake, stop it!" Ravyn swatted him on the arm. "Fine, Naima, let's go."

Naima led her to a tent several rows down from all the crowds and pulled back a flap.

"My humble abode," she said with a grin. The plethora of lanterns around the Circle and the brilliant moonlight served to light the outside of the tent fairly well, but the inside was dark.

Ravyn heard Naima fiddling with something.

"Be a dear," Naima said, barely over a whisper.

"What?" Ravyn asked.

"Not you, darling." Suddenly the tent illuminated with a golden glow radiating from a lantern in Naima's hand. Naima's round face was smiling pleasantly in the new light. Ravyn thought she looked rather mystical in the warm glow. She wasn't exactly beautiful, but her features were unique. She was enthralling to look at, maybe because that smile constantly on her face seemed to hold such mystery, as if the strange Tevouin woman was privy to something spectacular that the rest of the world couldn't know.

Ravyn looked around her. The tent was bare, except for a sleeping pad, some blankets, and a leather bag that was stuffed to the seams. There was no way Naima could have lit the lantern so quickly, and there was no one else in the tent for her to be talking to. Ravyn briefly wondered if anyone out there knew the truth about Naima's little mysteries.

"How old are you?" Ravyn asked as Naima started carefully unwinding her bandages.

Naima giggled.

"I don't keep up with such trivial matters." She pulled the jar of green salve from her bag and began applying it to Ravyn's palms. "But when Rowe came to live with us, he was nine and we were the same age." She began wrapping new bandages around Ravyn's hands.

"That was…nine years?" she muttered to herself, focused on the task at hand. "No, ten. By the stars, it's been ten years." Naima looked up and nodded.

Ravyn nodded back idly, her curiosity satiated for the moment, but then it sparked again.

"Wait, Rowe wasn't born a Tevouin?"

Naima laughed at that.

"Few of us are, darling. I'd say more than half the population has come from elsewhere, drawn to the Tevouin camp either by desire or by chance. Rowe wandered in half-dead from heat exhaustion and starvation. But there were lots of us without families in those days," Naima looked wistful. "King Cyrus was in a bad way back then. There was lots of turmoil and civil war. Astra was a captain then; she took in most of the orphans. There are many of us here who owe her a lot—Rowe most of all."

"Why?"

Naima gave a soft smile that made her look more mysterious than she ever had.

"She kept his secret."

"What secret?"

Naima giggled.

"Well,_I_ don't know what it is. There was a great controversy though; the whole camp was on edge about it. I was too young to pay much attention to it all. Rowe never talks about it."

Ravyn considered Naima for a few seconds.

"Are you and Rowe…"

Naima went into a fit of laughter then.

"No!" she managed to gasp. "No, not at all. We grew up together. He's like my brother." She swallowed back her laughter and concentrated on tying off the last bandage. "Alright, darling, all done—hello, what's this?"

Naima pulled back Ravyn's right sleeve and traced her finger across the ink outline etched into her skin on the underside of her wrist.

"Do you like it?" Ravyn beamed. "Horace had his ink and needle at the common meal. I couldn't resist."

A smile crawled across Naima's face as she examined the tattoo. It was an outline of a bird in flight, simple but elegant.

"For freedom," Ravyn said, with the barest hint of yearning under her tone.

Naima nodded.

"Interesting choice of placement," she murmured.

"How do you mean?" Ravyn glanced at Naima with a confused frown. She'd chosen her wrist because it was the only part of her body that she felt comfortable letting Horace go at with a needle.

"Nothing, it's just that it is on your first blood vein."

"My what?"

"One of the most direct paths to the heart." Naima shrugged with a grin. "It means a lot to us unstable folk with imaginary friends."

Ravyn sighed.

"Don't listen to Drake. He's just--"

"Don't fret it, darling," Naima waved her hand flippantly. "I've heard much worse in my life. Besides, there's hope for your brother yet."

"Ravyn!" Rowe's voice drifted over the dull roar of the crowds. "Ravyn!"

Ravyn shook her sleeve down and left the tent behind for the open air. The desert night air tasted incredibly fresh and cool, for all its stuffy heat in the daytime.

"There you are!" Rowe sounded exasperated as he took her arm and started dragging her back toward the Circle. "The council of luminaries wants to see you; Drake's already there."

"What's so important that the council is held during common meal?" Naima asked, skipping into step beside Rowe.

"I don't know, and you weren't invited."

"Oh hush, Roland."

Rowe stopped mid-step.

"Naima…" he said in a dangerous tone. "What did I say about--"

Ravyn erupted into giggles that she couldn't hold back any longer. She tried to muffle them with her hand but it was too little too late.

"Roland?" she gasped out finally. It was so proper and stuffy, very unlike Rowe.

He rolled his eyes.

"Alright, fine, let's all make fun of Rowe." He started walking again, muttering under his breath. "Like we don't have anything better to spend our bloody time on."

"Sorry, Rowe," Naima called out meekly over Ravyn's laughter, not sounding very sorry at all.

"You will be," Rowe said over his shoulder without slowing down. The matter was obviously a touchy one. Ravyn swallowed her laughter and ran after him with Naima close behind.

Behind Astra's tent, a much larger tent stood. It had a very official air about it, even in the merry night's atmosphere. Lanterns inside cast shadows across its walls, revealing that several people were seated on the floor.

"Go on," Rowe nudged Ravyn into the tent and stepped in behind her.

Seated on cushions in a semi-circle at the far end of the tent were five people, Astra among them. One of the men had a grandfatherly look about his aged features. The other two men were tall and solemn. Besides Astra, there was one other woman. She had frizzy gray hair that flew in all directions all the way to her shoulders. Her features were stern.

Drake stood silently to the left of the tent's entrance. Ravyn moved to stand beside him, getting a very uneasy feeling in her stomach.

"You have to understand," the elderly man said apologetically to Drake and Ravyn. "We are in no way calling your characters or motives into question…"

"But you want us to leave," Drake finished for him flatly.

"No one's saying that!" Astra assured immediately, shooting her fellow luminaries a hard glance. "I've already told you that you may stay if you wish."

"But you did not first consult the council!" The other woman interjected vehemently. "That is unacceptable, Astra. We live for the good of the people, not for the good of your conscience."

"All the same," Astra said with forced civility. "I don't imagine that the people would want to leave two innocent victims out on their own to die."

Ravyn at first wondered why Drake didn't just tell the luminaries that they weren't going to stay anyway, but then she realized that none of the five were even looking in their direction. This had become an internal discussion.

"You should have brought it to council, Astra," one of the men said softly.

"Fine, I should have," Astra conceded. "But on that note, this matter is a bit too inflammatory to decide amongst ourselves. We should bring it to the people."

All of the luminaries nodded in agreement.

"Very well," the older woman looked appeased. "The people shall vote. Rowe, can you spread the word among the captains? Tomorrow at noon all the captains will report to the council with their hundred's decision as to whether the Silvern monarchs will be given sanctuary in our camp."

Rowe nodded and left, dragging Naima along with him.

"Thank you," the elderly man said to Drake and Ravyn, by way of dismissing them.

Ravyn led the way out, completely at a loss as to why she had to be present for that five minute debate. Drake was silent as he walked beside her. Ravyn could see that he had a lot on his mind.

"They ask the people," he said quietly, almost to himself.

"Excuse me?"

"They depend on the people's decision." Drake shook his head. "I've never heard of anything like it. It's…fascinating."

Ravyn felt a surge of hope flood her heart. If Drake was intrigued by the Tevouins, then maybe he would consent to staying for a while, that is, if the Tevouins allowed them to. Ravyn wasn't exactly eager to run back to her old life of rules and the mundane, where everyone had an agenda and her brother was sold to the highest bidder. Besides, who knew what they would find if they returned to Silvern now?

"Drake…" she prodded slowly, wondering if there was anyway to suggest that they stay without him immediately refusing her. "You didn't tell them that we weren't going to stay."

"Well," he looked thoughtful. "Maybe we are."

* * *

Alden fidgeted in his seat across from the man known to the rest of the world as his father. Grey hadn't said much all evening. In fact, he had barely looked up since he arrived. There was something terrible brewing in his features, which were more weighed with age than Alden would have thought.

He really didn't have anything against his father. How could he? The man was literally nothing more than an acquaintance. Alden was reconciled with that. He figured that if having Leonard breathing down his neck was bad then having Leonard and the ex-general of Silvern around would be hell.

At least he didn't live in Silvern. Alden had no desire to live in the castle, or even in a village where people only knew him because his father once saved their lands from savages or worse. Asher was much better, in both society and weather.

His mother had been Asherian. That's the only reason Grey kept a manor in the country. Alden couldn't remember much about her, except that she was always doing something to make her husband worry. When Leonard complained about Alden to Grey, the man would always just give an empty chuckle and tell Leo to "go blame Lara."

Leo would stomp off and mutter under his breath because, of course, he couldn't blame Lara. She'd been dead ever since the Black Scourge had ravaged the land and stolen so many.

Really, Alden rather liked Grey. He never bothered him. Never wrote corny letters that he expected his son to reply to. Never told him to stop riding and tend to his studies. He was simply not there, and that was something Alden had grown to appreciate.

Of course, on nights like these when Grey was there, the possibility of change was always heavy in the parlor. And on this particular night, the possibilities actually shifted into reality.

"We're leaving," Grey announced suddenly into the silence.

"Excuse me?" Alden blinked and looked up. He'd been counting the seconds until he could run to the servant's quarters for knucklebones with Rebecca and Joss.

"First thing in the morning. You and I are going to the Asherian castle."

Alden struggled to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

"How long?"

"I'm not sure, maybe a while." Grey looked truly troubled as he spoke. His hands were shaking slightly and he kept wiping them on the arms of his chair, as if something were on them that he just couldn't wipe clean.

Alden didn't think very much about that; all he was worried about was the news.

"I can't just leave!" he insisted. The fair in the next town over was in a week. He, Joss, and Beck had been talking about it for months.

Grey looked stern all of a sudden, and Alden could definitely see the general in him slipping through.

"You will do as I say. We're leaving at first light." He stood up to his full height, which was impressive, and walked out of the room, leaving Alden to wonder with a frown how he was going to break the news to his friends.


	13. Part two: Grey

**Arranged: Part two**

**s8s8s8s8s8s8s8s8s**

"_General Grey of the house of Belefas is the single most decorated hero in Silvern's history. Some have even speculated that he is one of the few reasons Silvern still exists today. There is no denying that without his leadership, many a battle, and war, would have ended in complete failure. He has one son, but Grey doesn't seem to intend on training up the lad to step into his shoes. In fact, not much at all is known about the boy…"_

_--__A History of Silvern's Greatest_

Ravyn opened her eyes to the morning light and caught her breath. She suddenly had the uncanny sensation that the most incredible dream had slipped right through her mind and was now gone. But the joy in her spirit was not the result of a blissful dream, but rather of the exciting reality she had stumbled into. It wasn't a dream, she told herself as she sat up straight.

Two days. Two glorious days had passed since the noon sun had raised a sweat on her brow and the luminaries had received the captains one by one into the council tent to relay their people's wishes. Two fantastic days since Astra had told her and Drake with a smile that the Tevouins welcomed them. Two unbelievable days since she had looked at Drake with breathless anticipation and he had finally nodded to let her know that they would stay for a while.

To Ravyn, life had never felt so exactly right before.

She rolled to her knees, ignoring the tense aches in her shoulders and back. Despite the number of blankets that Naima had piled on the floor to fashion a sleeping mat, the desert ground was a far cry from the down mattresses in the Silvernian castle. Ravyn didn't care though. At the moment, she couldn't think of a place she would rather wake up, back pains or no.

Eager to get the day started, Ravyn quickly pulled on her clothes and was yanking on her second boot as she backed out of the small tent. However, in her enthusiasm, she failed to consider that hopping backwards on one foot is rarely a good idea. She tripped and sprawled backwards out of the tent.

Fortunately, something, or rather someone, was walking by at that precise moment and happened to break her fall. Unfortunately, this someone was not expecting Ravyn to fall suddenly out of her tent and onto him. Both flew to the ground, with the innocent passerby receiving the brunt of the landing.

"Good morning, princess," Rowe muttered into her hair.

"Rowe! How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" Ravyn demanded, rolling off him.

"No, don't worry," he said dryly, climbing to his feet. "I'm fine. The spinal fracture should heal in a few days."

"Sorry," Ravyn amended, offering a weak smile.

"I'll live," Rowe dusted himself off and tried to look begrudging, but a smile broke through. "Where are you headed in such a hurry?"

Ravyn shrugged.

"Nowhere in particular, I suppose."

"Come with me to the Outskirts then. I promised Garren and Lena a rematch."

Ravyn crossed her arms.

"And what makes you think I want to spend my day watching you show off?"

Rowe shrugged and started walking again.

"Suit yourself."

Ravyn watched him for a few seconds in indecision, but finally ran to catch up with him.

"Only because there's nothing better to do," she informed, so he wouldn't get the wrong idea.

Rowe just smiled.

In the cooler morning air, the training grounds in the Outskirts proved to be more crowded. A pair that Ravyn guessed to be Garren and Lena were by the center ring, conversing. Lena was perched neatly on one of the barrels marking off the boundaries. Garren said something and she swatted him playfully on the shoulder then kissed him on the forehead.

"They got married three months ago," Rowe said to Ravyn. "And it was about time too, we were all tired of their constant bickering. Now they can do it more conveniently and everyone's happy."

Ravyn smiled at that.

"We've been practicing, Rowe," Lena announced as they approached. "I'm afraid two versus one might be unfair this time." She slid off the barrel and began tying back her shoulder-length copper hair with a string of leather. "Nice to meet you," she added as an afterthought to Ravyn, though no introductions had been made.

"Likewise," Ravyn answered. The fast pace of Tevouin society afforded no time for formalities, which was something Ravyn could appreciate greatly.

"Look, if you're too ashamed to be beat simultaneously, you can just say so," Rowe grinned. "I can beat you just as easily one at a time."

"If that's the way you want it," Garren chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. "Then quit bragging and let's see some action."

"Ladies first," Rowe swept his hand toward the ring.

"Go ahead then, Garren," Lena said with a wicked smile.

Garren looked wounded.

"No loyalty," he complained, ducking under the rope. "Not even from my wife."

The three took their positions in the ring, swords swinging at the ready.

"Call it, Ravyn," Rowe said.

It took her a few seconds to realize what he was saying.

"Uhh, begin," she called, guessing that some unwritten rule demanded that a third party start the mock duels to ensure absolute fairness.

At the Silvernian castle, fencing was considered a very respectable sport. All the reputable nobles participated regularly in matches, lest their reputations be stained with whispers of cowardice. Ravyn had witnessed her fair share of mock duels, but as she watched the current one unfold before her, she began to feel as if she had never truly seen one before.

It began slowly, with nothing but soft footsteps in the shifting sand and sunlight glistening off steel. Lena's eyes narrowed the slightest bit and Ravyn had seen enough duels to know she was about to strike. Rowe saw it too; he shifted his weight to compensate.

But Garren charged first. It was a clever trick, and most would have lost then and there. Rowe was quick to adapt, however. Instead of trying to swing left and block Garren, which would have been suicide with his weight balanced toward Lena, Rowe avoided Garren altogether. He dove through the opening between the two, angling so his shoulder hit the ground first. He rolled with the impact and made it back to his feet in the blink of an eye.

"Nice trick," he said, slightly out of breath.

"One of many," Garren said.

"Hey! Rowe's in the ring with Garren and Lena!" One of the youths at the archery range dropped his bow and started sprinting. Behind him, a small flood of people followed. Ravyn found herself surrounded on all sides by eager spectators.

"Two gold on Rowe!" Someone cried.

"You're on! Lena and Garren have been practicing."

"They're doomed."

"Are you daft? It's two against one. Rowe got lucky last time."

Ravyn smiled as the debates raged around her. The three in the ring seemed to not notice their audience, and the lithe beating of footsteps in the sand continued.

The crowd pulsing around her seemed to only harmonize with the rhythm of the footsteps. The brilliance of sun and steel echoed over the voices in a melody all its own. Ravyn kept her eyes on the duel, and slowly lost herself in the art of the swordplay. Fencing in Silvern was almost mechanical, just two men exchanging polite clashes of steel. This was much more captivating, a dance in itself.

Swords and sand flew. Garren and Lena had their offense down to a science; each move was in exquisite harmony. Rowe seemed to be in both their heads, matching every strike with a perfect parry. A scripted fight could not have proceeded in such a beautiful fashion.

Even the excited crowd had hushed in anticipation.

Two seconds of utter silence hovered in the air. Suddenly Rowe took the offensive. He threw two lightning strikes in Lena's direction. She efficiently blocked the first, but the second caught her sword at an awkward angle.

Every eye followed the blade as it flew into the air. The morning sun captured it for a split second in a dazzling apex and then the sword plummeted back towards the earth. Rowe snatched it from the air and pointed it at Lena's throat. Then, keeping one sword on Lena, he spun and blocked Garren mid-strike. The clash of steel was deafening.

For about ten seconds, Rowe was split between both opponents. The sword in his left hand kept Lena in check and the sword in his right was fending off blows from Garren. An impressed murmur rushed through the onlookers.

Rowe swung low. Garren blocked low, but the swords never met. Rowe's switched course and stopped half an inch beneath Garren's chin. For a few moments, the only sound was heaving breaths.

"Nice trick…" Garren breathed.

Rowe smiled and lowered both swords. Lena rubbed her neck and shook her head. The audience erupted into a mixture of cheers and groans as money exchanged hands. Ravyn released the breath she had been holding and smiled.

The trio exchanged compliments and pats on the back then Rowe walked to where Ravyn was standing.

"So did I impress you?" he asked with a wink. He still sounded a bit winded and a sheen of perspiration glistened on his face.

"I suppose it wasn't a complete waste of my time," Ravyn answered with a mock yawn.

Rowe laughed and ran a hand through his short brown hair. The gesture managed to sweep out most of the sand, but it didn't do much else for the disheveled appearance. Ravyn rather liked the way he perpetually looked as if he'd been through a windstorm. It accentuated the liveliness of his blue eyes.

"Do you give lessons?" she asked with a sly smile.

"I don't know," Rowe squinted up at the sky in mock contemplation. "I generally stick to showing off…"

Ravyn shrugged and turned to follow the dispersing crowd.

"Suit yourself."

"Well, I might make an exception." Rowe grabbed her arm to stop her. "Only because I've nothing better to do," he added quickly, so she wouldn't get the wrong idea.

Ravyn just smiled.

* * *

The Prince and Princess of Silvern were dead.

When Saria received the news, she had a hard time deciding what she thought about it. It seemed so unreal, like a silly rumor that might pass between servants by the hearth. She said as much to the tall, grave Silvernian who had brought the word, despite the harsh glares it invoked from her father and Madam Porter. Apparently this man called Grey was an important figure in Silvern, a retired general or something.

"I'm afraid it's true, milady. We had just recovered the princess when the Tevouin dogs ambushed us." Grey's voice faltered and he broke eye contact, as if gathering the strength to continue. "The prince and princess were murdered."

"Why didn't you protect them?" Saria demanded without thinking. "Isn't that your duty?" Madam Porter gasped and ground her heel into Saria's toes. Saria bit back a yelp and decided to hold her tongue.

No one seemed to notice Madam Porter's reprimand.

"Some things are more powerful than duty…" Grey answered softly, his features sagging heavily with an emotion that Saria couldn't discern.

Saria frowned and looked down. Her stomach turned as the wretched news seeped in. It didn't seem right, somehow. How could the Blessed sit idly by and let such an atrocity occur? She hadn't known either very well, but anyone could see that Ravyn loved life and Drake loved his sister. Now they were both just…gone. Saria couldn't wrap her head around the notion of death. To her, it was as if the two had merely been wiped from existence, as if the pages of their lives had been ripped from the book and now there was nothing left.

"What a tragedy," Cyrus said, sounding more crestfallen than mournful. His perfect plans for a gold-reaping marriage were ruined. "The prince and princess--"

"They have names," Saria muttered crossly, not looking up.

"You weren't spoken to," Cyrus said coldly. "And I don't believe your presence is required any longer."

Saria took a deep breath as something like anger surged through her veins. Her first impulse repressed the anger and urged submission. It was dangerous to cross Cyrus when his voice took that tone. She should leave.

"They have names," she repeated, wondering if everyone heard the tremor in her voice. Surely they noticed that her hands were shaking and her knees were rattling. She should have left, but a part of her knew this had to be said. "Ravyn and Drake. They're people, not pawns wiped off a chess board." Somehow saying it sharpened the reality of death. In a twisted sort of way, that made Saria feel better. At least she had a heart. She might look like her father, but they were not the same.

"Leave." Cyrus's voice was ice to her veins.

Saria left. Her momentary surge of courage had been short-lived, but the small victory exhilarated her all the same. She felt satisfied for now, though later there would be hell to pay.

"Nicely said."

Saria stopped short as she rounded the corner. A boy was leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He was dressed too nicely to be a servant, but Saria had never seen him before.

"You heard all of that?" she asked, feeling fire tinge her cheeks. How loud had she been exactly?

He shrugged and straightened up with a smile.

"Who are you?" Saria's brow furrowed as she tried to pinpoint his face in the ocean of courtiers she'd met in her lifetime. Surely she would have remembered him. There was something offbeat about the way his reddish brown hair hung to the tips of his ears and eyebrows, curling slightly at the edges. And there was something very memorable about the liquid gray eyes that glistened below the hair and the way one corner of his lips was turned up in a half-smile.

"Why, Princess Saria," he said with mock surprise, uncrossing his arms and stepping out to walk with her. "Surely you jest. After all, you write every week."

Well that narrowed the possibilities down to almost every person of noble blood in the province. Madam Porter was very strict in making Saria write weekly to anyone of importance in order to hold up the façade that the Crown was intensely interested in every noble's affairs. It was a stupid tradition in Saria's opinion since no one ever wrote back, but Madam Porter would not be swayed.

The boy chuckled when Saria's expression remained blank.

"Alden. Of the house of Belefas." He stopped to sweep an exaggerated bow. "I must say, milady, it's nice to finally put a face to the rather slapdash signature."

"Excuse me?" Saria frowned slightly.

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Alden assured. "I think it's very stately the way the first and last letters run together into one massive scribble."

"If you wrote over a hundred letters a week you would stop caring about legibility too," Saria defended. "And some might call it daft to address a princess so crassly."

Alden didn't look convicted in the least. In fact, his smile curved wider.

"I apologize, your highness. But you have to understand, thanks to your letters I feel as if I've known you for years. And if recall correctly, every single one contains something to the effect of 'Please don't feel as if the monarchy is separate and distant. You are a welcome member of the extended family that is our glorious Asher.'"

"That's not my line," Saria insisted. Madam Porter made her write it in every letter, despite the fact that it was utter and complete tripe. "And besides, how do you get to know someone through a letter?"

She didn't expect an answer, but Alden was full of surprises.

"You hate writing. You've never left Asher, but you'd like to. You know nothing about politics and you don't like your father."

Saria stopped and looked at Alden with visible shock written on her face.

Alden issued a grin that was half-smile, half-smirk—both entirely innocent and entirely smug.

"It's all about reading between the lines. Oh, and you always spell 'policy' wrong. I haven't figured out what that means yet, but it may very well be the key to your innermost enigma."

It took Saria a few seconds to realize that he had lapsed into a joke because his expression never wavered. Once she decided not to be offended, she laughed.

"Well, maybe you should have written back. We could have skipped the awkward moment of me having no idea who you are."

"Where's the fun in that?" Boyish mischief flashed clearly through his pale gray eyes.

They walked the corridor in silence for a few moments before Saria decided to speak up. Getting to know new people wasn't one of her strengths, but neither was standing up to Cyrus and she'd already accomplished that this evening. The success had lent her temporary courage.

"What brings you to the castle?" she asked, watching him carefully from the corner of her eye. He had a very expressive face, and it was interesting to see his emotions displayed as he spoke.

Very obvious annoyance flashed across his features, darkening the glint in his eyes momentarily.

"My father had the sudden compulsion to start actually being a father," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Somehow dragging me here is in my best interest. And gods know that if the great and mighty retired general of Silvern thinks it's a good idea…"

"You're General Grey's son?" Saria exclaimed incredulously.

"First of all, he's not a general anymore," Alden seemed obliged to make that perfectly clear. "Secondly, 'son' is a very intimate term. I'd say I'm more the child his wife gave birth to."

Saria bit back a smile and considered for a few moments. Grey had been invited by Cyrus to stay for a while, no doubt so the king could try to salvage any remaining chances at Silvern's gold. That meant Alden would be around as well.

She'd barely known him for ten minutes, but the thought of him staying was refreshing. She didn't think Asherian nobles were allowed to be interesting, and an exception to the rule made her feel enthused about life in general. She needed some enthusiasm; the news about Ravyn and Drake had sucked some of the life out of her.

She forced herself to look on the brighter side, despite how selfish it made her feel.

She was no longer engaged to marry. Jackson was getting better, and his precious economic counsel was the morning after tomorrow. And now she had made a new friend.

Things weren't all bad.

She sneezed and coughed at the same time. The remnants of the cold that still lingered temporarily broke her concentration on the bright side. She felt certain it was going to be the death of her. Graciously, Alden didn't mention her rather unladylike display of wiping her nose with a handkerchief.

"So is there anything interesting around here?" Alden asked, once his annoyance at Grey subsided and Saria finished with her handkerchief. "Because I absolutely refuse to spend my time anywhere near my father, your father, or the Dragon Lady."

"The what?" Saria asked with a giggle.

Alden shrugged.

"I don't know her name. She looks like a dragon and when I forgot to kiss her hand I swear she almost breathed fire."

"Madam Porter!" Saria declared. "But 'dragon lady' suits her much better."

"Unfortunately, I'm not well-equipped to face a dragon for long periods of time. So where do you suggest we find respite?"

Saria thought of Cadmus in the library with his wrinkled smile and enchanting tales.

"Come on," she said with a smile, changing course. "There's someone you need to meet."


	14. Weakness

"_Every human has his weakness."_

_--Unknown_

Grey was feeling out of sorts. He wasn't sleeping. He barely ate. He couldn't even appreciate the timeless beauty of Asher's rolling valleys and verdant forests, which had always held a special place in his heart. Lara had loved Asher so, almost as much as he loved Silvern. Their match was a strange one, but in an extraordinary way that uncontrollable woman he married had completed him. She understood him.

_What would she think of you now? A murderer…_

Grey squeezed his hands into fists and turned away from the window. That omnipresent, quietly deafening voice in his head had grown more and more forceful with every uttered accusation. He no longer had the strength to drown it out, and so it whispered constantly, gnawing at the gaping hole in his chest.

Lara was dead. Times were changing. He had to find a place in this new world or he would soon be dead as well. Grey wasn't prepared to lay down arms and die. He had always been a fighter.

"You've done well, general."

At first Grey didn't react.

It's just that accursed demon in my head, he thought.

But then he fully registered the voice that had spoken and whirled to face it. The man stood just inside the doorway, smiling grimly. He wore a travel-dusted cloak and his features were gaunt with exhaustion.

"I don't possess that rank any longer, Owen," Grey answered tightly. He felt obligated to say that, but no part of him could deny the pleasure his old title inspired. He should never have lost it. That was Richard's first mistake.

"When this is all over, my friend, it will be yours once more."

"What are you doing here?"

"I bring a word of caution. That grasping fool Cyrus will start hounding you soon, calling for a merger between Asher and Silvern. Give him hope, but promise nothing. We have to avoid such a union at all costs."

"For months I've done as you say without question. I deserve explanations, Owen." Grey put an edge to his voice. Owen was, as far as Grey had discovered, the mind behind the sedition. He was in his thirties, with sharp eyes and a smooth tongue. His fierce ideals had birthed this cloak-and-dagger movement and his meticulous planning had kept it from coming to light.

"Peace, friend," Owen said fluidly. There was something powerful about the control he had over his voice and expression, as if that were merely a faint silhouette of the control he held over things much greater. "All will reveal itself in due course. But you are right to question. Understand this—we have thrown off the monarchy in order to free Silvern of the burden that drags it to ruin. Asher is chained to this same burden, and if we assent to a merger then all our work will be for naught."

"Some might say that Asher's wealth and influence can save Silvern." Grey was careful with his wording. He knew Owen was clever, perceptive, and passively ruthless in his mission. Threats to his purpose were eliminated and, above all else, Owen was powerful—enough so that even Grey feared his disapproval.

"Ah yes, dear Richard's approach. His strategy was ill-conceived, at best." Owen took a step closer. He was no match for Grey in stature, but still Grey felt dwarfed by his presence; such was the temperate authority that bled from Owen's every breath.

"We aren't fighting for time," Owen continued. "And time was all Richard's paltry wedding would have bought for Silvern. We are fighting for immortality. We must set Silvern among the Eternal and to do that we have to look deeper than wealth or land."

"And how are we going to do that?" Grey felt his heart stalling. There was power in Owen's words. They made sense of this senselessness that he felt trapped in.

Owen's lips curled, wrinkling the scar that snaked down his cheekbone.

"We will break the beast that protects the disgusting tradition of monarchial power. And in the wake of its dying breaths, Silvern will rise again. Reborn and eternal."

The air was thick with an epic silence as Owen turned to leave. Grey wasn't sure exactly what the man meant, but he didn't dare raise more questions.

"I ride to the Great Desert. If I am fortunate, we will find reinforcement for our cause."

"The Tevouins?" Grey asked, alarmed.

Owen looked back and chuckled.

"I would have thought you above the misconceptions. The Tevouins are fighting the same fight as we are, my friend. They understand that a monarchy is like poison to itself, quietly withering a country from the inside out. They will help us." He opened the door and stepped out.

"Oh, and Grey," he added before he pulled the door closed. "I advise you to maintain your distance from the poor fools in this castle, lest their ignorance weaken your good judgment." It was an order skillfully disguised as a suggestion.

Grey nodded numbly and the door clicked shut.

The air in the room suddenly felt foggy. Grey cleared his head with a few deep breaths and contemplated. A very tender passion slowly wound itself through his spirit. Silvern would rise again and it would eternally remain. That was all he really wanted, right? Suddenly the blood on his hands seemed less substantial. The sequence of events before today was regrettable, but they were necessary tragedies if Silvern could climb out of the hole it had sank into. Grey felt invigorated as he systematically rationalized away every ounce of guilt that weighed him down.

The passion inflamed his resolve.

_Nothing can stop you now. You must never yield to weakness again._

His tormenting demon suddenly seemed an encouraging friend, and Grey began to feel himself again—no, not himself. He felt better than himself, different and empowered. Nothing could stop him now.

* * *

"Why can't I see him?" Saria demanded angrily.

Jackson's primary physician shook his head and stepped sideways to stand directly in front of the door, as if he was afraid Saria might rush past him.

"He's very ill, milady," the aged man said gently. "We cannot risk exposure."

"But the economic counsel is today. He was so excited!"

"I'm afraid he won't be going anywhere for a while."

"Then let me at least see him."

"I simply can't. It's for his own good."

"I'm his sister!" Saria said vehemently, knowing full well that it was a meaningless argument.

"All the same, miss. Please, I'm just trying to do my duty," he looked genuinely regretful and was almost pleading for her understanding.

Saria nodded slowly and sighed.

"I don't understand how he's so ill," she complained. "He was doing wonderfully a few days ago."

"And I warned him not to take it for granted." The old doctor frowned slightly. "The cold he caught while roaming about would be harmless to anyone else, but his body is so weak…"

Saria's heart stopped and the tickle in her throat suddenly seemed a million times worse.

"Did you say he caught a cold?" she croaked out.

"Yes, milady. Why?"

Saria shook her head and forced back some panicked tears. He could have caught a cold from anyone in the castle. It wasn't necessarily her fault.

The pain in her head drifted to her stomach and began to chew mercilessly.

"He's going to be okay, right?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

The way the physician hesitated sent her heart into her throat.

"With plenty of rest, he'll be fine," the man offered a smile. It was an empty one.

Saria bit back a sob and forced herself to remain composed. She was overreacting. Jackson got sick all the time. He always got better.

The door swung open and another doctor stepped out, his back to Saria.

"You were right to worry," he said heavily to the physician. "Short of a miracle, I'm afraid this cold will be the death of him."

The sob she'd been fighting escaped from Saria's throat like a rogue hiccup. The second doctor turned and blinked in surprise.

"Princess!" he said with an audible tinge of guilt at her having heard his diagnosis. "I didn't see you there…"

But Saria was already running in the opposite direction, tears burning her cheeks and sobs ripping through her throat.

It was in this state that she came across Alden.

"What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed, as she stopped just short of bowling him over.

"N-nothing," Saria hiccupped, looking down as she tried to walk past him.

"Hold it." Alden grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. "Now, who died?"

Saria burst into tears again, unable to calm her heart as it throbbed in her chest. Alden had only meant it figuratively, but such an expression could no have come at a worse time.

"Jackson's sick," she managed with much gulping. "The doctors can't…they said…" She couldn't finish.

"Oh…" There really wasn't anything else to say.

"I'm all right…" Saria said, slowing down her breathing to the point of sounding thus. She really just wanted him to let her pass. She needed to be alone. The attempt at composure was short-lived, though. In a flurry of tears, her panic and guilt reared once more.

"It's my fault," she gasped out, throwing her back against the wall and sliding to the floor, where she dropped her head into her hands. "I had a cold…he caught it…my fault." She was suddenly breathing so fast that she wasn't getting any air at all.

"Calm down," Alden ordered, dragging her back to her feet. "Saria, take a deep breath." He shook her shoulders sharply when she failed to comply. That snapped her mostly out of it and she managed to swallow a few decent gulps of air. It occurred to her how ridiculous she must look--her golden braid disheveled and tears and mucus flowing freely down her red face.

She sniffed and fought for poise. Alden probably thought her a pathetic child.

"Listen to me. He's sick, not dead. And instead of taking charge and seeing what can be done, you're sobbing as if the grave's been filled."

Saria felt convicted at his words, but she also felt a twinge of hopelessness. Taking charge? That wasn't in the brief list of her talents.

"If the doctors can't--" she started lamely.

Alden shook her again. It was actually getting annoying.

"Doctors are paid to hum and haw over people's problems. Jackson needs someone to fight for him."

Saria stared blankly.

"That's you!" Alden cried exasperatedly and would have shaken her again, except she foresaw it and stepped back.

"Honestly," Alden continued. "You act as if your sole purpose on this earth is to wander around and sigh at all the problems. Don't you ever want to do something about them?"

"I do not!" she said defensively. "I mean, I do want to do something, but--"

"But what? You can't? Says who?"

Saria cursed silently. How did he know so much about her? How could he somehow jump ahead of her every argument?

"You're wrong about me," she muttered, wishing he were.

"Only partially. You stood up to Cyrus. That's proof you know how to fight back. So how come you never do?"

"What do you know?" Saria demanded. "We've known each other for a day."

"I wasn't exaggerating last night. I've been reading your letters for years. I feel like I've known you forever."

Saria sighed, not sure what she thought about Alden knowing her better than she knew him. It made for a very unfair argument.

"Fine," she conceded. "How do you suggest I fight for my brother? It's not like I can march into his room and rip the sickness from his body."

"Well, you could start by getting a different opinion. There's more to cures than even doctors know."

"And who does know, if not a doctor?"

Alden smiled.

"How about someone who knows a little of everything?"

Saria pondered for a second, then found a smile twitching at her lips as well.

"It's worth a try," she said.

"That's the spirit. To the library."

In the library Cadmus listened to Saria's plight in attentive silence, declared it an atrocity against natural justice three times, and subsequently deposited three massive stacks of crudely-bound books onto a table for them.

"These," he pointed, nodding. "These hold much much much wisdom, though your doctors are ashamed to admit it. Tevouins know more than most about matters such as these. They eat, drink, and breathe nature—of course they know her healing properties!" He pulled out a chair for Saria and plopped one of the rustic books into her lap. It looked as if it had been compiled of different pieces of scrap parchment, and then hastily bound with leather.

Saria sneezed at the dust.

"Read!" Cadmus hounded, jabbing Alden in the back until he sat and took a book as well. "Read, read, read. And learn. I shall do the same." He watched them warily for a moment, as if making certain they were doing as they were told. Finally he tottered back to his desk, where a rather large volume awaited him.

Saria felt immediately disgusted at the notion of reading through all of these books, but she immediately scolded herself. Jackson would do this for her. He wouldn't rest until he'd found something. Neither would she.

For almost half an hour, the library was quiet, with naught but the quiet shuffle of pages to break the silence. Soon, Saria felt as if her head were going to burst. She was going cross-eyed trying to pick through this text. There were lots on cures, from blisters to heat exhaustion, but nothing of Jackson's magnitude. She found her mind wandering…

"How come you actually read my letters?" she asked suddenly of Alden, hoping that some conversation to distract her from the boredom might actually keep her focused on the task at hand. "I'm not the best writer…"

"No, you're not," Alden conceded with a grin.

Saria wrinkled her nose at him and turned the page. Another dissertation on the many uses of bogwheat, which included treating mild burns as well as being a delicious addition to a dish of venison.

"Anything's more interesting than politics," Alden continued thoughtfully. "And as long as I looked like I was reading something, my tutor left me alone."

"You don't like politics either?"

Alden considered.

"I think life should be about solving problems and finding happiness. If politics accomplishes that, terrific. But as it stands…" he chuckled and looked back at his reading.

Saria nodded and glanced back down. He was definitely a problem-solver. She rather wished life could really be as simple as he postulated. He seemed very confident in his philosophy, so much so that Saria began to wonder if maybe she had missed something vital and life really was that simple.

She frowned as she realized that she'd just turned two pages without comprehending anything. It was going to be a long day. But somehow, doing something made her feel less hopeless about Jackson. After all, Alden was confident. Why shouldn't she be too?

* * *

Drake had decided that Naima was quite possibly the most infuriating person he had ever met. Perhaps the only other people who came close to matching her were King Cyrus and his selfish, childish daughter. But Naima was still at the top of the list by far.

There wasn't anything wrong with her, aside from her being veritably insane. But she was fascinating. Furthermore, she was fascinating for no readily available reason, except that perhaps she was born that way. In fact, there was no rhyme or reason about her, and that irked Drake to no end. He liked to have reasons. And Naima, with all her laughing at nothing, talking to no one, and always headed nowhere in particular, possessed no reasons whatsoever.

"Where are we going?" he asked impatiently as she slowed her mare down to a slow trot. She'd found him early this morning, handed him the reins to a horse, and told him to follow her. He had, but only because she promised not to stop pestering him until he did. Plus, though he was loath to admit it, Drake was curious.

He'd been following her for hours, across the vast and harsh beauty of the desert, and she still hadn't explained herself.

"To someplace green," she answered. "Don't you get tired of sand?"

He did, but that was beside the point.

"And when we find someplace green? What then?"

Naima giggled.

"Honestly, you ask far too many questions. I imagine we'll find something to do upon arriving."

Her answer was far from satisfactory, but Naima urged her horse back into a gallop, efficiently cutting off anymore questions. Drake sighed heavily to himself, but followed her lead for unknown reasons. He only hoped that he had a reason; the worst thing he could fathom was maybe that Naima was rubbing off on him.

Gradually, the desert landscape evolved beneath them. The sand became darker and darker, until it was soil. The desert brush became greener and greener, until it was grass and trees. And suddenly, they were in a verdant valley instead of red desert.

"Wonderful!" Naima exclaimed, sliding off her horse and out of her shoes in the blink of an eye. She spun around twice, palms open to the sky and face upturned to the sun. Then she collapsed onto the ground with a happy sigh.

Drake dismounted and stood over her, arms crossed.

"Could you not have done this on your own?" he complained.

"Oh, loosen up! Breathe a little." She reached up and yanked him down beside her with surprising strength. "Your problem is that you don't know how to have fun."

"My only current problem is the insane female who insists on dragging me miles through the desert to sit in the grass."

Naima smiled, revealing dimples on her chin that Drake noticed for the first time. She wasn't beautiful in a classical sense. Her features were far too unique for that. Her round face was gracefully proportioned, yet seemed almost too mild for her personality. From her curved, rosy lips to the tiny freckles speckling her nose and cheekbones, everything about her was just too tame. Only her hazel eyes, which danced constantly to the rhythm of her smile, seemed to capture her spirit.

The breeze picked up between them, tugging the blades of grass to and fro. Naima laughed and jumped suddenly to her feet.

"Well, come on then!" she belted into the open air, arms spread wide.

Drake raised his eyebrows. Then, bringing the answer to his unasked questions, a sound of thundering hooves echoed through the valley. Drake stood up in time to see a massive grey stallion galloping masterfully towards them.

In a flurry of stomps and huffs, he came to a stop right in front of Naima. His tremendous flanks heaved as his head dropped low enough so Naima could rub her hand behind his ears. The beautiful animal's coat was radiant in the sun, smooth as velvet and glistening with every ripple of his muscles.

Naima gripped his mane in both fists and jumped. In a very complicated and difficult looking maneuver, she pulled herself up onto his back. She seated herself sideways as if he were just a massive chair for her convenience and grinned.

Drake was surprised to note that the horse's irises were stunning amber in color. Highly unusual. He'd never seen the like.

"Well, of course it's not a real horse," Naima said, as if she were picking up a conversation right in the middle. "It's a fey. Beautiful, isn't he?"

The stallion snorted in something like approval.

Drake frowned, but for some reason couldn't dismiss Naima's claim immediately. There was something deep beyond those amber eyes, something that whispered of wisdom and power beyond appearances. It was insanity, and yet he found himself considering it.

The beast emitted something like a neigh as Naima stopped rubbing his ears. But the sound was strangely gargled, as if it were merely a poor imitation of a horse's neigh.

"What's wrong with it?" Drake asked. It sounded horrific.

Naima chuckled.

"The fey can't fully assimilate to animal forms. They don't communicate vocally like other creatures, so they can never quite get the sound right. I find it quite amusing."

"Why's he here?"

"Just curious. They all are—always showing up when something exciting or different is afoot. But most people don't have the mind to see them if they're in their true form."

"And you do?" Drake raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose so." Naima gave a sly grin. "Or I'm just imagining things."

Both could be plausible explanations, Drake supposed. Though, at the moment, the latter seemed more probable. Naima laughed, as if she could hear his thoughts, or perhaps her invisible friends were saying something.

"Don't be so close-minded, Drake. They're all around us, from the grandest manor to the poorest shack. The fey love to watch humans. It is in their nature, just as doubting their existence is in ours."

"You don't doubt them."

"Well, that's because I can see them." Naima began the slow and meticulous ascent to her feet while still on the horse's back.

"And why can you see them?"

"Because I don't doubt them." She grinned as she straightened up fully.

Drake decided that pointing out her circular reasoning would only prompt her to continue this wholly ridiculous discussion.

"What are you doing?" he asked tiredly as she rocked precariously on her toes.

"Flying," she said simply, turning her back to Drake in order to face the sudden breeze. Her arms were wide open, embracing the wind as it engulfed her. Her light cotton dress fluttered around her ankles and her brown locks danced across her face.

For a full minute, Drake watched her as she stood atop the stallion's back in her imagination's flight. He'd never seen anything like it. That seemed to be the pattern of things since he'd met her. If the fey flocked toward exciting and different things, then it was no wonder Naima had a constant following. But Drake didn't let himself dwell on that notion. The fey was not a rational concept, and a horse with strange eyes was not any sort of proof.

"Would you catch me?" Naima's tone was pensive and she hadn't yet lowered her arms.

"Excuse me?"

"If I just…fell. Would you catch me?" She glanced over her shoulder at him with a daring smile.

"Most definitely not. Why can't you climb down like a normal--"

She fell backwards, arms spread wide and eyes peacefully closed.

He caught her.

Her eyes flew open and she smiled with satisfaction as if he had just revealed some great secret.

"You lied," she said gleefully, sliding out of his arms.

Drake rolled his eyes and started walking back toward his horse. This little escapade had proceeded far enough. He could only stomach so much nonsense in one day.

"I'm going to let you fall next time," he informed her as he mounted.

Naima giggled.

"We'll see."


	15. Insanity

"_What a fine line there is between courage and insanity!"_

_--The poet Ettne_

"No, step right with your left foot. You keep stepping left."

Ravyn lowered her wooden practice sword and frowned at Rowe, who looked very comfortable issuing directions from his seat on a corner barrel.

"Well, maybe if you would come down here and show me instead of sitting on your rear…" She looked pointedly at him.

Rowe sighed heavily and jumped down from the barrel.

"Fine…" he said, pulling his sword and standing next to her. "Now pay attention." He moved his left foot. Ravyn did the same and soon they were moving in unison through the offensive maneuver.

"Good," Rowe said approvingly when she finally managed to do the steps herself. "Again, with the sword."

Ravyn tightened her grip on her practice sword and mimicked Rowe's movements once more.

"Better," Rowe said with a nod. "Let's take a break." He headed out of the ring.

"I don't see why I have to learn all these boring maneuvers," Ravyn said, accepting the water skin her offered her. She took a long drink and handed it back.

"You have to learn the basics before you can learn the fun tricks." Rowe smiled and swallowed some water. "Swordplay is all about discipline."

Ravyn bit back a smile and pushed up her sleeves. In the mornings and evenings, the desert was cool enough for long sleeves, but once the hot noon sun took hold of the sky it was a scorcher.

"I didn't think of you as the disciplined type," she said.

"I'm not. Well, I wasn't. Astra's pretty serious when it comes to swordplay. I didn't have much control over the matter."

Ravyn laughed and reached for the water skin. Rowe didn't let go and rotated it to see the underside of her wrist.

"I see you paid a visit to Horace." He looked amused.

Ravyn grinned and pulled away the water skin to take another drink.

"Alright, so you've seen my tattoo. Let's see yours."

"Who says I have one?" Rowe reached for the water, but Ravyn yanked it out of his reach.

"Horace did."

"Horace talks too much." Rowe managed to retrieve the water skin and took a gulp. "Are you ready to continue?"

Ravyn frowned that he'd changed the subject, but nodded.

"Fine, but I want to practice with a real sword." She waved the wooden sword at his nose. "This one is giving me splinters."

"We're not walking all the way back into camp to find you a sword."

"So let me use yours."

Rowe laughed shortly.

"Interesting thought, but no."

"Come on," Ravyn jabbed her finger into his chest. "Be a gentleman."

"By giving the lady a sword? I must have missed a chivalry lesson."

"Who says I'm a lady?" Ravyn smiled and wrapped her fingers around the hilt of his sheathed sword.

"Who says I'm a gentleman?" Rowe wrapped his hand around hers and loosened her grip without dropping eye contact.

"Please?" Ravyn did her best to look innocent and pleading. The look had stopped working on Drake years ago, but after a few seconds Rowe sighed heavily and slid his sword from the sheath.

"Try not to hurt yourself," he muttered, defeated.

Ravyn smiled victoriously and took the weapon. It was far heavier than she thought it would be. Rowe noticed her pained expression and raised an eyebrow.

"Something wrong, princess?" he asked tauntingly, guessing what the problem was.

Ravyn turned up her chin and brushed past him to the middle of the arena. It took a lot of straining, but she managed to keep the sword up.

"Nothing's wrong,Roland," she said pointedly. "Can we continue?"

Rowe rolled his eyes and joined her in the center of the practice ring.

"Let's say your opponent strikes vertically," he said, taking up stance beside her. "Watch." Brandishing an invisible sword, he moved quickly through several quick steps, ending with a spin and a downward slash.

Ravyn raised an eyebrow as he looked at her expectantly.

"Come on," Rowe said when she didn't budge. "That's the most basic parry there is."

"You call that basic?"

"Just try." He was getting exasperated.

Ravyn tried. On the second step, she moved the wrong direction. Rowe was quick to correct her. She tried again and made the same mistake. Rowe walked through the parry twice more for her, but Ravyn couldn't get the sequence right.

She exhaled, frustrated.

"Maybe I don't have the knack for this," she conceded dejectedly, lowering the sword until the tip was in the sand.

"Nonsense. Try again."

"It's no use," Ravyn insisted.

Rowe sighed.

"Here." He stepped behind her. "Step with me." He nudged her heel with his toe and together they moved through the parry.

"Good," he said and Ravyn caught her breath. She could feel his breath in her ear.

"Again," Rowe continued. "With the sword." His right hand clasped the sword hilt over hers. He reached around and pushed in her left hand to grasp the hilt as well. Together they stepped and turned, like some sort of cautious, silent dance.

"See," he said on the final step. "It's not impossible."

Ravyn turned her head to look at him.

"You're a good teacher," she said with a smile.

"I try." He grinned. Their faces were only inches apart and his cerulean eyes were locked onto hers. Ravyn's heartbeat sped up the slightest bit.

Someone coughed.

Rowe released her hands and stepped away immediately. On the other side of the rope, Naima was hiding a smile and Drake was glaring, arms crossed.

Ravyn winced and handed Rowe back his sword.

"Swordplay lessons…" she said into the awkward silence.

Naima emitted something like a giggle and Drake just turned and walked away.

Ravyn glanced apologetically at Rowe and chased after her brother.

"Drake, wait!" She fell into step beside him. He didn't stop.

"Rae, what are you doing?" he asked in the quietly dangerous tone that Ravyn had learned to be cautious of.

"I told you. I'm just learning swordplay."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"Well, what are you talking about?"

They had reached the edge of camp. Drake stopped suddenly and whirled to face her.

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about."

Ravyn drew back slightly. She'd never heard him speak so sharply before.

"What's your problem?" she demanded.

Drake looked away and didn't say anything. But his silence spoke.

"You don't like that he's Tevouin…" Ravyn said slowly.

Drake started walking again. Ravyn caught up to him and grabbed his arm.

"They're good people!"

He stopped and looked at her.

"You don't even know him."

"Nothing's happening, Drake," Ravyn insisted, but she lacked conviction in her voice.

Drake noticed.

"In case you've forgotten, the Tevouins slaughtered hundreds of knights a few months ago."

"You know Cyrus's knights marched on them! They had to defend themselves."

"Maybe."

"Stop being judgmental. You don't know anything about them. And you don't know anything about Rowe. He--"

"He was in the dungeons. Have you once stopped to consider why?"

Ravyn bit her lip, caught off guard. She didn't have a reply.

Drake sighed.

"Just be careful, Rae."

* * *

"Well, that was an interesting endeavor." Alden stretched his arms above his head and yawned as they left the library. The servants were lighting the torches that lined the corridor and evening had drenched the castle with a light chill. 

"We didn't find anything," Saria muttered with a frown. "It was a wasted endeavor."

"Don't be so pessimistic. We just…found a lot of books that don't have what we need."

Saria rolled her eyes, but gave a bare smile.

"Alright, Sir Optimism, what do you suggest we do now?"

Alden looked thoughtful.

"Well, we could always pack up and head to the Forbidden East," he said jokingly. "Cadmus did say they have cures there."

Saria laughed.

"Great. If that's your best plan, I think I'm going to go to bed."

"Fine. Meet back here in the morning? Maybe we can dig up another few books to pick through. Though I admit, my faith in the Tevouins is wearing thin."

Saria smiled tightly and nodded.

"Alden…thanks for today," she said softly. If he hadn't come and talked some sense into her, she'd probably still be sobbing in a corner. He was right; now was the time for action, even if a part of her still felt hopeless.

"I was only performing my civic duty, your highness." There was a twinkle in his eye as he swept a gallant bow.

Not to be outdone, Saria dropped into her best curtsy.

"The crown is in your debt, good sir."

"I'll remember that. Sleep well, princess." He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

Saria felt her cheeks flush. She had a feeling Alden noticed, but she said goodnight and left before he could laugh at her. As she rounded the corner, some of the heat in her cheeks rushed to her stomach and she allowed herself a small smile. Somehow, even though everything was going wrong, at least one thing felt right.

Alden stifled another yawn and started in the opposite direction. He turned the first corner and almost walked right into Grey. His father was just standing there, arms crossed and lips in a tight line. Alden got the feeling he had been eavesdropping.

"What are you doing?" Grey asked in a dangerously quiet tone.

Alden didn't know much about his father. But one thing he did know was that when Grey took on that tone, he meant business.

"Her brother is sick. I'm just helping her research a cure." Alden started to move past him. "It's not a big deal."

Grey sidestepped to block Alden's path. From the look on Grey's face, he was prepared to start a lecture right in the middle of the corridor, but he seemed to think twice about it.

"Follow me," he said finally and started down a different hall. Alden sighed and looked heavenward. The last thing he needed was some sort of sermon from his father, but he obeyed.

Grey led the way through a maze of corridors until finally he pushed open a door into a small study. The room was bare and musty, with some mismatched chairs, a rickety table, and several bookcases stuffed with mildewed books and rat droppings.

"The monarchy is deteriorating." Grey clicked the door shut.

"Excuse me?"

"Just listen. The world is changing, and there is no place in it for a monarchy. The people want freedom and a right to govern themselves."

"And…?" Alden wasn't much for political talk, but that sounded reasonable to him. He sort of doubted such talk was smiled upon by Cyrus though, which explained why his father dragged him to this deserted corner of the castle. What didn't make sense was why Grey felt the need to discuss it at this hour.

"I can't tell you much, but you need to understand this—we can't associate with the monarchy if we hope to survive the coming storm."

That got Alden's attention.

"What do you mean, survive?" Something uneasy whispered in his gut.

Grey looked pained.

"Don't ask questions. Just do as I say and stay away from the princess."

"You're sounding paranoid." Alden turned to leave. Maybe Grey was growing senile or something. "I'm not going to--"

Grey grabbed his arm and yanked him around mid-sentence. Alden caught his breath in surprise at looked at his father. For the first time, he noticed something different about the man. Something harder and sharper in his countenance. Something colder in his eyes.

"Let go of me," Alden said with a frown, trying to pull away. Grey's grip was iron.

"You listen to me, boy. I've sacrificed too much for this cause. There's too much on the line. You will obey me."

"What are you talking about?" Alden jerked harder and managed to escape his father's grip. He'd never known Grey to be violent before, at least not off the battlefield. But looking at the man now, it was hard to tell if he was facing his father or a general.

"There are those with power who would see your association with the princess as a threat."

"We're just friends. How is that a threat to anyone?" He suddenly had to notion that maybe Grey was mixed up in something a bit more dangerous than politics.

"I'm trying to look out for you."

"A little late now, don't you think? And I'm not going to stop being friends with her to suit your paranoid delusions."

He had a feeling he had gone too far, a thought that was solidified when Grey took him by the collar and slammed him into the wall. The air immediately evacuated his lungs and Alden winced at the sharp pain that twisted through his spine.

"You will obey me!" Grey shouted and stepped back.

Alden slid to the floor. He struggled for breath and tried to gauge how quickly he could make it to the door. Grey had gone mad.

"I'm looking out for you," his father repeated softly, sounding as if he were convincing himself more than anyone.

"Well, you can stop," Alden gasped out, making it to his feet. "I've managed without you for seventeen years. I don't need you now." Especially if Grey's idea of looking out for him was throwing him into walls. He had to get out of here.

Grey stepped in front of the door.

"That may be," he said, suddenly very cold. "But there are matters here you don't understand."

"Understand this," Alden said angrily. "I don't care about your stupid politics, and I don't care about the monarchy. Saria needs my help. I'm not going to turn my back on her."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, boy."

The icy resolution in Grey's eyes and voice gave Alden a very uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had never known his father to be violent before, but now he was beginning to second-guess the fact that he'd ever known his father at all.

* * *

Saria was feeling very heartened the next morning as she walked to the library. The doctors had still refused to let her see Jackson, but that only strengthened her resolve to help him somehow. There was a smile on her face until she turned the corner and saw Alden standing in front of the library. He was leaned against the door, arms crossed and head down. 

The change in his usual confident, exuberant demeanor was unsettling. Something was wrong.

"What happened?" Saria asked in horror when she saw the livid black and blue bruising around his eye and down his cheekbone.

"Lost a fight," he said sullenly, not looking especially keen on expanding. His lip was busted and Saria caught a glimpse of more bruises hidden under his hastily buttoned shirt.

"A fight? With who? Why--"

"I don't want to talk about it," he snapped, straightening up.

Saria frowned and he sighed.

"Sorry. Rough night."

"I can see that. You should go back to bed. I understand if you don't want to help me today."

Alden looked hesitant as he considered, but he shook his head.

"Saria, listen." He glanced around nervously, as if he expected someone to be listening. "I've been here all morning. There's nothing else in that library that can help us."

Saria's heart fell.

"But I'm not giving up. I've been thinking, and I talked to Cadmus." He took a deep breath. "Call me crazy if you want, but maybe we should go to the Forbidden East."

The suggestion was heavy in the air for a few seconds.

Saria forced a nervous laugh.

"You're joking right? We can't just…leave."

"Why not?" Alden insisted. "Don't you ever just want to get away from here? And everything I've read says that the Forbidden East has cures!"

"We'd be killed before we even made it out of Asher."

"Nonsense. You don't know that."

Saria rolled her eyes.

"Oh, that makes me feel better. Seriously, Alden, let's get to work."

Alden grabbed her shoulders and looked her squarely in the eye.

"I am serious, Saria. Would you at least consider it for a moment?"

Saria raised an eyebrow, but grudgingly complied. She considered. It was insanity—that much was certain. It was extremely dangerous and stupid and rash and idiotic and…suddenly, she couldn't shake the idea from her head.

What if they went to the Forbidden East? Her mind's eye raced with the thought and she could see all the incredible sights that Cadmus had read about from his friend's account of the journey.

What if she could see those things for herself?

"You're serious?" she managed in a small voice, meeting Alden's gaze.

He smiled.

"Why not?"

She could help Jackson. She could find a cure and come back and save him.

But this was insanity.

She shook her head slowly.

"No…I can't. I can't just leave. And we could never make it the Forbidden East!"

"Saria--"

"No," she said firmly, backing away. Alden's spirit was exciting and new, and she liked that. But it also scared her. She'd never left Asher before, how could she ever hope to go as far as the East?

It was insanity.

She looked down and walked away, simultaneously upset and relieved that she didn't have the courage to say yes.

* * *

_A/N: Whoo. New chapter. Thanks so much for the reviews. You're all peaches.  
_


	16. Reason

"_Reason and rationality are indispensable tools in the pursuit of Truth. They are that cliff we jump from when Truth requires a leap of Faith." _

_--Avalyn, noted Tevouin philosopher_

The red sands of the Great Desert glistened in the light of the setting sun. Drake tried to imagine the position of the Tevouin camp on a map. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the bold ink strokes across the pale parchment. He tried to picture the gentle lines denoting the graceful slopes and the jagged marks showing the rocky terrain to the south.

But he couldn't. All he could see was the red sand and the brilliant sunset. He could hear the wind brushing softly through the sand and feel the heat coming off the ground. It was strange that the longer he stayed here, the less he could remember what it was like to not be here. It had only been about a week, and he could barely remember what the stone floors and mahogany banisters of the Silvernian castle felt like. He could barely remember Silvern. That scared him.

He was sitting on the hillside on the western side of the camp. Behind him the Tevouin camp was bustling steadily with preparations for the common meal. He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to figure out how he was supposed to fix things.

Someone dropped down beside him and Drake wondered how he knew it was Naima without even looking. Maybe he was spending too much time around her. Another problem to fix.

"Isn't it beautiful?" She nodded toward the sunset. "He does a brilliant job."

"Who?"

"The Blessed One."

Drake didn't say anything and Naima giggled.

"Nonsense," she said to her left, cocking her head to listen to her invisible friend. "Maybe…Fine, fine." She giggled again and swatted with her hand. "Don't be a bother."

Drake raised an eyebrow and Naima looked at him, smiling.

"You don't believe in the fey. You don't believe in the Blessed One. What exactly do you believe in?"

"I'm sorry, are you talking to me now?"

Naima wrinkled her nose at him and Drake sighed.

"I believe in rationality."

"Good! Me too." She grinned and Drake wondered if she was soft in the head or if she remained blissfully oblivious on purpose.

"That's nice," he said decisively, hoping she would drop the conversation. He didn't like talking to her—she always complicated things.

She jabbed him in the shoulder.

"You don't think I'm rational!" she said, as if it was a surprise.

Drake rolled his eyes and looked at her.

"No, I think you're insane. Any irrationality isn't your fault."

"You're being unfair," she replied with a slight frown. "And evasive."

Their eyes remained locked for several seconds, but the stubborn air of authority behind Naima's hazel eyes won out in the end. Drake sighed.

"Do you really believe that there are invisible creatures fluttering around?"

"I can see them!"

"Fine. Well what about this obscure, omnipotent deity of yours? You can't see him."

Naima frowned again and looked down at her hands. Drake let loose another sigh and looked away. He didn't like disregarding her beliefs like that, but he couldn't help himself. His mind thrived on reason, and couldn't abide without it.

"It's a matter of faith," Naima said suddenly.

"You can't expect me to abandon reason for faith."

"I don't. The two can coexist." She jumped to her feet and gestured widely with her hands. "Just look around! It doesn't take a leap of reason to know that Something is behind all of it. You can't tell me you've never thought, just once, that maybe there's something more to life than what you can see."

Drake looked blankly at her and Naima shook her head softly.

"Of course, you've never really looked around before, have you?" she muttered.

It was Drake's turn to frown.

"Now you're being unfair," he complained.

Naima bit her lip and sat back down.

"I'm sorry," she said tightly, hugging her knees to her chest.

All was silent for a few long moments. The sun had almost disappeared from the sky.

"I can't believe that," Drake said quietly.

"What?"

"That there's something behind all of this."

"Why not?"

"Because that would mean I don't have control over any of it." He stood up and dusted himself off. "My whole life has been arranged for me. But this, staying here," he glanced over his shoulder toward the Tevouin camp. "I made that decision. For the first time in my life, I was free to make my own decision. If there's some omnipotent deity behind all of it, then that freedom is just an illusion."

Naima nodded slowly and stood up as well.

"I understand," she smiled barely. "You don't have to believe what I believe. But you'd be surprised how much freedom there is in an open mind. Surely that's not irrational." She grinned a little wider and skipped back towards camp, humming a nameless tune under her breath.

* * *

"I just don't know, miss," the serving boy shuffled his feet nervously and avoided eye contact.

"I'm the princess!" Saria said, feeling childish for pulling the Royalty card, but she was desperate.

"It's a crime for the serving staff to lie!" He tried to inch around her. "I don't want to go to the dungeons."

"That won't happen," Saria promised, moving to block his escape. "Would it make you feel better if I made it an order?"

The boy fervently shook his head no.

"Please don't make me, miss. I don't want to."

Saria dropped to one knee and shook his shoulders.

"Come on, be a man!"

"Did you just tell that eight year-old boy to be a man?"

Saria stood up abruptly.

"I need to see my brother," she said defensively to Alden, wishing her cheeks weren't flushing. "All he has to do is tell the doctor that someone fell off a balcony or something to lead him away, then I can sneak in." She glared at the uncooperative serving boy.

Alden grinned and crossed his arms.

"Well, this might just be my opinion, but…" He glanced up and down the corridor and leaned in confidentially. "I don't think extorting a serving boy is considered very ladylike behavior."

Saria sighed and looked away. Alden's busted lip looked better, and the black eye and bruises down his cheek had faded into a nasty green. He had never elaborated any further on how he had gotten them, despite no little amount of hinting from Saria. They had only talked minimally since that morning earlier in the week when he had made the proposal about the Forbidden East. He hadn't brought it up since. In fact, he seemed a lot more scarce, only showing up at odd hours of the day when there weren't very many people around. Saria had refused to dwell on the thought that perhaps it was her cowardice that made him scarce.

"I want to see Jackson," she said with a small stomp of her foot, wondering why she resorted to such childlike behavior in crisis. It was like all semblance of maturity completely deserted her.

Alden made a noise that could have easily been a laugh or a cough. A maid rounded the corner with a tray balanced on her hand. Alden's eyes lit up at the full goblet of red wine.

"Well," he said with a mischievous smile, "If her majesty demands it…Do you mind?" He snatched up the goblet as the maid passed. She raised an eyebrow but shrugged.

"What do I care? King Cyrus didn't want it—told me it wasn't rich enough." She rolled her eyes. "Didn't even taste it."

"It will go to good use," Alden promised. The maid just shrugged again and walked away.

"What are you doing?" Saria asked as Alden dipped his finger experimentally into the wine.

"I'm distracting a doctor." He grinned and looked up. "You won't let them throw me in the dungeons will you?"

"Does this mean I can go?" the serving boy asked anxiously. Alden waved him off and he wasted no time leaving.

"What are you going to do, bribe him with wine?"

"Nonsense, I think your balcony idea was much better." Alden peered around the corner where the door to Jackson's room was open slightly. He stepped back and winked at Saria.

"Watch and learn." He dumped half the goblet's contents on one hand and the rest on the other. The result was two dripping, red hands. "Doctor! Doctor!" he shouted, handing Saria the goblet and rounding the corner.

The elderly doctor rushed out of the room, looking around wildly for the source of the shouts. Alden waved his hands theatrically.

"Doctor, you have to come! He fell off a balcony. There's so much blood—it's terrible!"

Safe behind the corner, Saria smiled. He was a pretty decent actor.

But the old doctor was a bit more intelligent than they bargained for.

"That doesn't look like blood…"

Saria peeked around the bend and caught a flash of annoyance cross Alden's features as his ruse was called into question.

"Are you seriously going to critique his blood while he's lying there dying?" Alden waved the doctor to follow and started running down the opposite corridor.

Saria watched the doctor hesitate, but his conscience got the better of him and he hurried after Alden. She felt a little guilty about exploiting the kindly old man, but that guilt was outweighed by desire to see Jackson. With a hasty glance down the corridor, she slipped into his room and locked the door behind her.

The curtains were drawn, leaving the room in a state of eerie darkness. A chill crawled down Saria's spine and she resisted the urge to turn around and run. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat and forced herself to walk to Jackson's bedside.

Her throat tightened when she looked into his sleeping face. She'd seen Jackson sick before, but never like this. His face was deathly white and frequent tremors rippled through his body. Chalky lips were parted slightly to allow for shallow, raspy breathing.

Saria held her breath and realized she couldn't remember why she was here.

"I'm scared," she whispered. Speaking past the lump in her throat was almost impossible. She didn't even know why she was talking. He was asleep. Her trembling hand found his and she held on for dear life. His skin was hot to the touch.

Jackson stirred. Saria forced a smile onto her face as his eyes opened.

"The economic counsel," he gasped out. "I can't miss it."

Saria's stomach dropped.

"Jackson," she managed. "It's been almost a week."

His face fell and Saria bit her lip.

"Next year," she said softly. "You can attend next year's."

He started coughing violently. Saria closed her eyes and squeezed his hand tighter.

"I know you're scared," Jackson said hoarsely. "I wish…" He was overtaken by another coughing fit.

"Yes?" Saria asked tremblingly. Silent tears were pouring down her cheeks. She hated seeing him like this.

"I wish I didn't have to leave you."

Saria's heart was throbbing painfully in her chest and she shook her head fervently.

"You're not leaving!" she cried. Jackson winced and she lowered her voice. "We'll fight this."

"I can't, Saria. We can't."

He was right.

"You're wrong." What was she saying? "I'm…I'm going away for a while. But I'll be back. Promise me you'll hold on."

"Where…?"

Saria hesitated. The Forbidden East? It was insane! But seeing Jackson like this changed everything.

"Far away. I'm going to find a way to help you."

"Saria, there's not--"

"There is! And I'm going to find it."

Something like a smile crossed Jackson's sickly features.

"Are you sure you're my sister?"

Saria laughed shortly through the tears that poured down her cheeks. He had always told her to explore new things. Why had she waited for these circumstances to listen?

"Just promise me you'll hold on," she murmured. The door handle was being jostled. Apparently the old doctor had returned from his wild goose chase.

Jackson squeezed her hand.

"Promise me you'll come back in one piece." His breaths were deepening and his eyelids were drooping. He was falling back asleep.

"I'll be back."

"Then I'll be waiting." He let loose a long sigh and his grip dropped limp. He was sound asleep. Saria wished him a peaceful sleep and left.

She found Alden by the well in the gardens. He was scrubbing his hands in a bucket of water. When she neared he looked up and grinned.

"If you want to see your brother again we're going to have to come up with a different strategy. I'm not sure the doctor sees me as credible anymore."

Saria just looked at him in silence. His grin waned slightly.

"What's wrong?"

"Were you serious?"

"About the doctor? Well, he--"

"About going to the Forbidden East."

Alden paused.

"I was."

Saria took a deep breath. Her head was spinning with reasons to just walk away, but she couldn't shake Jackson's sickly image from her mind. She had to help him.

"How soon can we leave?"

Alden grinned.

"How does tomorrow sound?"


	17. Loyalty

"_The strings of loyalty are thick and strong among the Tevouin, holding them together when the perils of the Desert and the might of the civilized world would rip them apart…"_

_--"Essays Regarding the Tevouin Threat to Society"_

In the Great Desert's cool morning air, the Outskirts were bustling with activity. All the practice rings were occupied, archers were hammering the targets with arrows, and younger Tevouins were whacking at hay-stuffed dummies with wooden swords. Rowe and Ravyn had procured a ring at dawn and had been practicing ever since.

"This is getting old." Ravyn jabbed the sand with her wooden sword. Drake had insisted that they abandon the real swords. She had decided that under the circumstances it was best not to argue.

"Are you kidding me?" Rowe looked heavenward.

"It's not as fun as it looks," Ravyn said defensively.

"It's not supposed to be fun!"

"You have fun." She crossed her arms pointedly.

Rowe waved his sword in her direction.

"You're impossible."

Ravyn grinned innocently and pointed over his shoulder toward the archery range.

"Why don't you show me how to do that?"

Rowe turned around.

"You can't be serious."

"What? You don't know how?"

"Sure I know how. That doesn't mean I want to teach you."

"Please?" Not bothering to wait for a reply, she tossed her practice sword to the side and grabbed his arm.

"Hold on," Rowe protested as she dragged him toward the range. "I didn't say yes."

Ravyn stopped and looked at him with a clever smile.

"Are you going to say no?"

Rowe sighed, knowing he'd lost. Grudgingly, he followed her lead. Once they reached the range, he found a bow and put it in Ravyn's hands.

"This is a bow," he said slowly.

Ravyn rolled her eyes.

"I know what it is."

"Hey, you wanted me to teach you. So learn." He smiled smugly and pulled an arrow from a barrel of them. "This is an arrow. Careful of the sharp end."

Ravyn narrowed her eyes and yanked the arrow from his hand. She managed to fit it to the bow.

"You're a natural. Now just aim and shoot. Easy."

Ravyn got the feeling he was patronizing her, but she decided to play along. Her first try just flopped to the ground. Rowe corrected her fingering and she tried again. The arrow made the distance, but its wobbly arc didn't end anywhere near the target.

Rowe took the bow and grabbed another arrow.

"You're worrying to much about technique. It's not about where the arrow's coming from, but where it's going." He pulled the bowstring taut. "Deep breath as you pull back. Keep a steady line of sight down the arrow to the target. Release a breath with the arrow."

With a twang, the arrow flew. It penetrated the wood about a foot from the red center.

"Nice shot," Ravyn said. Rowe shrugged.

"It's not my forte, but I manage,"

Ravyn nodded slowly, considering his lesson. She grabbed an arrow and held out her hand for the bow.

"Let me try again."

Rowe handed it to her.

"It takes practice," he cautioned as she fitted the arrow and took aim. "You can't expect to--"

The arrow's tip buried in the wood right in the center of the target.

Rowe forced his jaw to close and looked at Ravyn. She looked as shocked as he was. He grabbed another arrow.

"Beginner's luck. Try again." It had taken him a week when Astra started teaching him to get anywhere near the target.

She tried again. The arrow landed inches from the center. Ravyn lowered the bow, her eyes wide.

Rowe shook his head bewilderedly.

"You really are a natural."

Ravyn smiled slightly and took another arrow.

"Now this is fun."

"Rowe! We need some help!"

Rowe spun around. Jason was running toward them, waving frantically. Behind him in a practice ring several bodies were rolling in the sand in a fierce struggle.

"Oh, for crying out loud…" Rowe muttered and started running. Ravyn dropped the bow and arrow and ran after him.

"It's Kat," Jason said breathlessly. "She beat Jon in a duel. He took it bad--said something about her brother. Dobbs tried to pull her off and now…" he trailed off because the vicious brawl in the sand was explanation enough.

Rowe grabbed Dobbs by the back of the shirt and yanked him out first. Dobbs stumbled backwards and hit the sand, holding his jaw. He tried to grab Kat next, but she was blinded by rage. Rowe got an elbow to his face for the trouble. He frowned at the blood streaming onto his hand and dove between the wrestling duo with new purpose.

He pushed Jon back and dragged Kat to her feet.

She struggled to push past him but he shook her sharply.

"Kat! Stop it!"

"None of your business, Rowe," she spit fiercely.

He kept a firm grip on her shoulders.

"Get a hold of yourself," he snapped. "What would Astra think?" Kat calmed down the slightest bit at that. For all Kat's pride and attitude, it was hard not to respect Astra. She took a shallow breath.

Rowe nodded slowly.

"Good. Now walk away."

Kat took a few more forced breaths and turned. Jon, only about a year older than Kat, scrambled to his feet, wiping his busted lip with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, Kat," he jeered. "Walk away, just like your brother did."

Rowe didn't have time to react before Kat had shoved past him and crashed into Jon full force. The pair hit the ground again in a fiercer struggle than before. Rowe briefly considered leaving them to their vices, and then he saw the glint of the knife.

What happened next was a blur. Rowe managed to pull Kat away and she landed on top of him in the sand, still kicking and punching furiously. Rowe rolled out from under her and sat up in time to see the knife in the sand. Jon was sitting up a few feet away. Kat had reoriented herself and was lunging toward him.

Rowe knew they were both laced with adrenaline and blinded by the survival instinct. It was just a question of who got to the knife first. Luckily, it didn't escalate to that point. Astra arrived and stepped in. She crossed her arms and put one foot definitively on the knife.

Kat stopped mid lunge and jumped to her feet. Jon did the same.

Astra was looking down and there was a stony expression on her face. She was silent and composed, but everyone present could see that she was furious. Rowe pulled himself to his feet, suddenly aware of the sharp pain in his abdomen.

"Rowe, you're bleeding!" Ravyn cried, running to him. Rowe winced and pulled his hand away. It was a shallow cut. The knife had probably just swiped him by accident.

"It's fine." He looked at Ravyn. "I'm fine."

"Let me make this perfectly clear." Astra looked up finally and glanced between Kat and Jon. "I don't care who said what. And I don't care who started it. I only care about one thing. Who pulled the knife?"

Both Kat and Jon remained stubbornly silent. Astra glanced at Rowe. He just shook his head; it had happened too fast to tell.

"This is serious," Astra snapped, temporarily losing the composure in her voice. "Someone could have died." She started pacing. "We are a family. This is not how we solve problems. Who pulled the knife?"

Silence. No one, not even Astra, expected anything less. Among the Tevouins, honesty and family were important, but loyalty was valued above all else. That explained the prolonged disdain for Kat's brother, a deserter, as well as Kat's intense need to defend her brother's name anyway.

Astra sighed.

"I understand your reluctance, but I can't ignore this. Either one of you confesses or you're both banned from the training grounds for three months."

Both winced, but neither spoke.

"Fine," Astra said softly. "Then the punishment is effective immediately." She pulled her foot from the knife and stooped to pick it up. Something flashed through her eyes, but she just stuck the knife in her belt and started to leave. "Have Naima take a look at that," she said to Rowe as she passed.

The small crowd began to disperse.

"Kat," Rowe began carefully. She ignored him and walked away. He sighed and shook his head.

"I tried to stop her," Dobbs said despondently. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it, kid," Rowe said tiredly, patting his back. "You're her friend. Go talk to her."

Dobbs nodded and hurried after Kat.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Ravyn asked worriedly, trying to get a good look at Rowe's injury.

"It's just a scratch," Rowe said, trying to sound nonchalant even though blood from his nose and abdomen was staining his hands.

Ravyn wasn't convinced.

"Let's go find Naima."

"I think I'll live."

Ravyn nudged him in the direction of the camp.

"Don't make me find Astra and tell her you're disobeying orders."

"Come on," Rowe tried to look pitiful as she herded him along. "I'm wounded. Shouldn't I get some sympathy?"

Ravyn couldn't hide a smile as she patted his arm.

"I'm sure Naima will give you lots of sympathy."

"I'd rather get it from you." His lively blue eyes lingered on hers for a few seconds and Ravyn had to look away to keep from blushing. "Naima's sympathy always ends with some strangely-named herb that smells like dung or turns my skin blue," Rowe continued, looking away as well.

"You poor baby."

"Is that sympathy?"

Ravyn grinned.

"More like pity."

As they entered the camp, lots of people stopped and stared. Several of the elderly Tevouins shook their heads and chuckled, apparently Rowe's reputation for finding trouble preceded him. When they found Naima she was by the pool of water in the Circle, surrounded by giggling children.

She and three of the children were engaged in a wrestling match with a large dog that was opposed to the idea of a bath. Drake was nearby, holding a rope and watching the antics with an amused look on his face.

"Naima, we need some help…" Ravyn called.

"One second, darling!"

The dog threw off the three children on top of him. Naima dived forward and missed him by inches.

"Get him, Drake!" she cried over the shrieking laughter of the children. The dog was having fun by now. He jumped up and planted two massive paws on Drake's shoulders. Both tumbled to the ground. The dog dragged his tongue up Drake's face--chin to forehead--and kept running.

"Aww, he got away!" One of the children cried.

"Not quite," Drake said, sitting up. His hands were empty. Everyone looked at the fleeing dog and saw the makeshift leash trailing behind him; Drake had managed to get the rope around his neck.

One of the boys let out a whoop and started the chase, followed by his friends. Ravyn saw a smile cross Drake's face as the children rushed past and she couldn't help but smile as well. She hadn't seen him happy in a very long time.

"Well done!" Naima hopped up. "That will keep them occupied for a while."

Drake just wiped the dog slobber off his face and climbed to his feet.

"Next time let's put on the leash before we let the dog know it's bath time," he said pointedly.

Naima giggled.

"Where's the fun in that?" She glanced at Rowe for the first time. "What have you done to yourself?"

"It was a fight," Ravyn answered for him.

"I take it you lost," Drake said to Rowe with a smirk.

Rowe scowled.

"You should see the other guy."

"Stop it," Ravyn ordered, glancing between her brother and Rowe. Then she looked back to Naima. "It was Kat--"

Drake snorted.

"And someone else." Ravyn finished pointedly, shooting a glare at Drake. "Rowe got in the middle of it to stop them."

"One of them had a knife," Rowe added heavily.

Naima pursed her lips.

"Alright, I'll get the tascerine."

"Which is?"

"An herb. It will prevent infection."

"Does it smell like dung?"

Ravyn laughed and Naima just shook her head with a smile.

* * *

"Kat! Kat, wait up!"

Kat didn't bother slowing down as Dobbs chased after her.

"Where are you going?" he demanded breathlessly when he finally matched pace beside her.

"Nowhere," she snapped, not slowing down. "Why are you following me?"

"The camp is that way!" he pointed emphatically over his shoulder.

Kat rolled her eyes and glanced at him.

"Wow, Dobbs. What would I do without you?" she muttered sarcastically.

"Seriously, Kat! Where exactly are you planning on going? The options aren't exactly abundant in this direction." He waved his hand in the direction they were headed, where the sand dunes looked exceedingly desolate and the shriveled, scattered crabgrass looked particularly bleak.

"Seriously, Dobbs. Why are you following me?"

"Don't you want to talk about what happened back there?"

Kat stopped short at that. She turned and looked him in the eye, which was hard since Dobbs was a head taller than she was.

"Dobbs, we've known each other…what? Seven years?"

Dobbs shrugged.

"I guess. Since we were six."

"And how many times in those seven years have I wanted to talk about something?"

Dobbs sighed.

"Never."

Kat flashed a trite grin and kept walking.

"Fine." Dobbs caught up with her again. "But are you planning on walking until you collapse from dehydration?"

"If I am are you going to stop me?"

Dobbs just looked pained, mostly because they both knew stopping Kat was easier said than done. Kat laughed shortly.

"Relax. I'm not running away."

"So where are you going?"

Kat was silent until they reached the crest of the sand dune.

"There." She pointed to the bottom of the slope where a massive dead tree was laying on its side. The grey, gnarled branches twisted upwards and out like writhing snakes. Dobbs raised an eyebrow.

"What are you going to do? Chop firewood?"

"Shut up." Kat whacked him on the arm and started half-walking, half-sliding down the steep dune. The dead tree's trunk was as wide as Kat was tall. She reached up, grabbed a branch, and swung up onto the trunk as easily as if she was mounting a horse.

Dobbs struggled a bit, but managed to climb up as well.

"Kat, we really need to talk about what happened," he said as she pulled a rusty penknife from a hollow in the trunk and began whittling intently on a stick.

"What's there to talk about?" she mumbled darkly.

"That was the fourth fight this month."

Kat looked amused as she glanced up.

"You keep count?"

"Me and some of the guys have a running bet—but that's not the point! You need to stop."

"You're not my mother, and Jon had it coming. He insulted my brother."

"Well, you know, there are those who would suggest that your brother has it coming." Dobbs sounded a little exasperated.

Kat's grip tightened on the knife and she looked up, eyes brimming with fire.

"Watch it, Dobbs. Just because you're my friend, doesn't mean--"

"Grow up, Kat! I think you're old enough to stop picking a fight to solve every problem." Dobbs crossed his arms and glared back. "And I can't understand why you keep defending him. He might not even be alive."

"Don't say that!" Kat nearly shouted. "And deserter or not—he's the only family I have."

"I'm your family! We're all family." He gestured toward the Tevouin camp.

"Whatever. I'll stop getting into fights as soon as people stop insulting my brother."

"Astra worries."

Kat looked down at her hands and a definite frown crept across her features.

"Astra thinks I pulled the knife."

"How do you know?"

Kat looked up and if Dobbs hadn't known her better he could have sworn that tears were saturating her green eyes.

"Because it was my knife. She gave it to me last month."

It was Dobbs's turn to frown.

"Did you--" he began tentatively.

"No! I didn't—I would never…" she heaved a frustrated sigh. "I know the rules. Jon must have pulled it from my belt."

"You should have--"

"Ratted him out? No way." She set her jaw. "I know those rules too."

Dobbs nodded. The unwritten rules of loyalty were almost more important than the written ones and were infused into the blood of every Tevouin.

"Three months' suspension from the training grounds?" Dobbs shook his head. "How are you going to manage?" Suspension meant she couldn't so much as touch a weapon, and to Kat, who spent almost twenty-four hours a day in training, it was a very serious punishment. Technically, she wasn't even supposed to be fiddling with the penknife in her hand, but Dobbs decided that now wasn't the best time to bring that up.

"Well, look at it this way," Kat said with a smirk. "Maybe after three months you'll have a ghost of a chance at beating me."

Dobbs rolled his eyes and threw a piece of bark at her.

"You're such a--"

"Who's that?" Kat stood up on her feet to get a better look at the horse and rider flying across the dunes straight toward them from the direction of Silvern. Dobbs squinted slightly, puzzled.

"Looks like…Danni? She left for Silvern a couple of weeks ago with Luke."

"So where's Luke?"

Dobbs shrugged and slid off the tree to meet Danni as she reigned in her horse.

"Is Astra at camp?" Danni pushed her hair from her forehead and leaned into her horse as if she was too tired to sit up straight. Her normally light hair was sullied with days' worth of dust and sweat, and her horse's flanks were heaving with exhaustion from a long run.

"Yeah. Where's Luke?" Dobbs glanced past her, expecting Luke's horse to top the sand dune.

Danni pursed her lips and nudged her horse around the tree. Then she spurred it into a gallop towards camp without saying another word. The spent horse struggled up the slippery, sandy dune, and Danni vanished over the crest. Dobbs looked at Kat, who raised an eyebrow.

"This doesn't sound good." She jumped down from the trunk and started sprinting towards camp, scrambling up the dune with Dobbs right on her heels.

When they made it back into camp, Danni was sitting on one of the wooden benches in the Circle, spilling her story to Astra in between gulps from a waterskin. Dobbs and Kat had to squeeze their way through the crowd of Tevouins who had gathered.

"We went to that village in Silvern—Cullum, like you said." She splashed some water on her hand and rubbed her sunburned face tiredly. "I thought you said they asked us for help with bandits."

Astra nodded with a frown.

"They sent a letter begging for help."

"Well, they needed help alright. Half the village was burned down."

"The bandits?"

"A dragon. As far as Luke and I could tell, there were never any bandits."

A stunned silence followed.

"Did you say Cullum?"

All eyes flew to Drake. Danni nodded slowly then blinked.

"Aren't you--"

"Cullum used to send a messenger once a month to the castle complaining of a dragon." Drake looked at Astra, not interested in explaining to Danni that he was, in fact, the supposedly dead prince of Silvern. "The knights never found any evidence of one though."

"The dragon's real enough," Danni said, not missing a beat. "Unless Cullum is a village full of arsonists. The villagers are terrified and the village leader is hopping mad. Apparently the dragon kidnapped his daughter."

"Dragons don't kidnap people." Naima was wiping tascerine off her hands as she and Rowe joined the circle of listeners.

"I told him that." Danni sighed. "I also told him that if the dragon did take his daughter then she's probably dead. He wouldn't hear a word of it—demanded that Luke and I go save her."

"And?" Astra's face was set in a definite frown. She'd sent Luke and Danni to Cullum as a sign of good faith. The fact that the village lied did not sit well with her.

"We combed the nearby mountains as well as we could, but that terrain is rough." Danni glanced at the fresh scars on her hands and made a face. "We couldn't find a trace."

"How high did you climb?"

Danni looked at Kat and shrugged.

"I'm not sure. I just know we stopped when Luke almost fell to his death. The village leader—pompous idiot named Orson—wasn't placated though." She shook her head.

"The villagers had weapons and the lying cowards started making threats. They were going to keep me there as incentive for Luke to come back with help, but Luke offered to stay. I've been riding for three days--ran out of water on the second." She took another gulp from the waterskin.

"Why didn't you fight back?"

Danni looked at Drake.

"And do what? Slit all their throats? They're innocent, just desperate."

"So Luke is safe?" Astra asked, rubbing her chin and looking thoughtful.

"I don't think they'll hurt him, but I wouldn't underestimate them." Something like a smirk crossed her face. "We thought they were all amiable sheepherders until twenty of them pulled swords on us."

"Thank you, Danni." Astra started toward the Luminary tent.

"Astra!" Danni jumped up. She was still a little unsteady on her feet thanks to the day's worth of dehydration. "Luke didn't have to take my place. I want to be in the party that goes after him."

Astra gave a tight-lipped smile.

"I know, but I'm sending out a party tonight. You need rest."

Danni opened her mouth to argue, but Astra was already walking away. Astra was very strict about a mandatory two-day rest when returning from an excursion. The desert was a harsh mistress and had taken her toll on many a traveler who didn't know his or her limits. When Astra was gone, Danni was immediately surrounded and swept away by friends and family. The crowd dissipated shortly thereafter into small groups speculating who the luminaries were going to send to Silvern.

After thirty minutes, Astra stepped out of the Luminary tent and called a captains' meeting. The Circle was hurriedly cleared to make room for the meeting. Most of the Tevouins scattered into the rows of tents. Drake, Naima, and Ravyn clustered several dozen yards from the meeting, waiting for Rowe to bring news.

"I didn't know dragons really existed," Ravyn said, stepping into a tent's shadow to avoid the sweltering sun.

"They're rare and reclusive. Few people have ever seen one," Drake replied.

"Have you?" Naima's eyes were bright with the hint of a smile.

"No." He frowned at the giggle she bit back. "What?"

"Nothing…just, if you've never seen one how do you know they exist?"

Drake rolled his eyes.

"Can we not start this again?"

"Sorry, darling." She fell silent but didn't manage to lose the smile.

Ravyn hid a grin and slipped away to retrieve her waterskin from her tent. The day was growing hotter by the second. Drake and Naima stood in silence for a minute before Drake finally spoke up.

"There's evidence."

"What, darling?"

"Of dragons. There's evidence of their existence." He looked at her. "That's how I know they exist."

"I thought you didn't want to start this again."

"I don't."

"Then why are you?"

"I just thought I'd clear it up."

"Oh, well, thank you."

"My pleasure."

They fell silent again.

"What evidence?" Naima asked after another minute.

"I thought we weren't starting this again."

"You said you wanted to clear it up." Naima looked at him with a coy smile. "The issue is still a bit fuzzy for me."

Drake's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the mischievous glint in Naima's hazel eyes. But he played along.

"There are eyewitness accounts."

"They could be mistaken. Or lying."

"I've seen a dragon scale."

"It could have been a really strange rock." Naima's grin widened. Drake was getting frustrated.

"What about Cullum? Half the village was scorched."

"Like Danni said, it could just be a case of arson."

"Your explanations are very unlikely." Drake raised an eyebrow.

"But they're plausible—if we're working solely from the evidence." Naima jabbed her finger into his chest and when he looked down she flicked his nose. "You're the one who likes being rational."

Drake took a polite step backwards.

"Are you trying to convince me that dragons don't exist?"

Naima shrugged.

"I'm not trying to do anything. I'm just being conversational."

"Argumentative," Drake corrected.

"Semantics." Naima grinned at him, and against his better judgment Drake came dangerously close to returning the smile.


	18. Excuses

"_The fine line between excuses and lies is easily blurred. The more excuses a man makes, the harder it is for him to realize that from the very first excuse, he has been lying to himself."_

_--Avalyn, noted Tevouin philosopher_

"You want me to do what?" Drake crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at Astra, who wasn't daunted in the least.

"Go to Cullum with Rowe and try to negotiate Luke's release."

"No."

"Well, thanks for giving it due consideration," Astra said sarcastically with cocked eyebrows. "But I'm serious."

"So am I. You have plenty of captains to send."

"But I only know one prince of Silvern. The citizens of Cullum will listen to you!"

"In case you haven't heard, I'm not in a position of royalty anymore," Drake said coolly, hiding his feelings about his current position well.

"Quit making up excuses. You know they'll listen to you."

"Drake," Ravyn began, but Drake held up a hand to silence her. He looked at Astra with a slight frown on his features like he was about to say something. Instead he walked away.

Astra was not to be refused. She walked after him, followed by Ravyn and Naima. Rowe had stayed in the Circle after the meeting to talk with some of his fellow captains.

"This is important," Astra said, matching Drake's long strides easily. "Luke is one of our own, born and bred."

"So send another one of your own. I can't help you," Drake replied, refusing to look in her direction.

Astra kept trying to sway him, but by the time they reached the Circle Drake had disregarded every argument Astra could think of. She let loose a breath of frustrated air and was about to give up when Rowe stepped out in front of them.

"So…" Rowe crossed his arms and looked at Drake, his characteristic cocky grin playing on his features. "Ready to go slay a dragon?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Drake said coldly, pushing past him.

Rowe moved aside to let him pass and looked at Astra with a triumphant smile.

"I told you he would be too scared to go."

Drake stopped and turned. His features were set in a definite frown.

"I'm not scared."

Rowe just smirked.

"Of course not. What was your excuse again?"

Drake's green eyes narrowed slightly and he set his jaw. He glanced at Astra.

"No excuses. I'm going." He nodded sharply and walked away.

"Nicely played, Rowe," Astra said lightly when Drake was out of earshot.

Rowe just grinned.

* * *

"Saria, open this door immediately." Madam Porter shook the handle to Saria's room angrily. 

"Just a moment!" Saria cried as she shoved the bag she had been in the middle of packing under her bed. Her jewelry boxes had been emptied. She shut them all hurriedly and looked at Alden who was watching her, unalarmed, from the chair by the window.

"You have to hide!" she whispered frantically.

Alden raised an eyebrow at her and didn't budge.

"Why?"

"I can't be in here with you alone!"

"Why, milady! Are you suggesting impropriety?" he asked with mock revelation, amused by her anxiety.

"Who else is in there?" Madam Porter bawled, practically shaking the door off its hinges.

"Alden, I'm serious!" Saria hissed, dragging him up by his arm.

"Fine, where do you suggest I hide?" he waved a hand around the room.

"The wardrobe!" Saria pushed him into it and clicked the doors shut behind him. She dove for the door to her room and unlocked it. With one hand she hurriedly straightened her skirts and with the other smoothed her hair. She remembered to put on an innocent smile just as her lady-in-waiting charged into the room.

"Young lady!" Madam Porter crowed. "Why was your door locked? A lady never has secrets!"

"My apologies, Madam." Saria dropped into what she hoped was a meek and apologetic curtsy. Maybe if she played the humble, obedient princess then Madam Porter would leave soon.

Madam Porter looked around suspiciously, not buying into Saria's sudden change in behavior.

"I thought I heard someone else in here."

"No you didn't," Saria said after a brief lag. She didn't know what else to say. Clever, spur of the moment explanations were not her specialty.

"Then who were you talking to?" Madam Porter asked with narrowed eyes as she stalked suspiciously around the room like an animal on the hunt. Saria imagined smoke tendrils pouring from her nostrils. The woman really was a Dragon Lady. Madam Porter stopped short in front of the wardrobe as if she could really catch the scent of her prey. One perfectly manicured hand reached for the handle.

"I was talking to a bird!" Saria cried, wincing as soon as she said it. She would have to get some help in the art of smooth lying later.

"A bird?" The sheer stupidity of the excuse stopped Madam Porter cold.

"It was…at the window."

A muffled chortle came from inside the wardrobe. Madam Porter's gaze snapped to it like a hawk locking onto its prey. Saria's heart jumped to her throat and she knew she had to distract the woman fast.

"Aaahhh," she gave her best attempt at a wail of pain and fell to the floor. "My stomach!" She moaned as pitiably as she could and grasped her stomach. "It hurts!"

Madam Porter dropped down next to her in a flurry of skirts.

"What's wrong?" she demanded.

"Maybe you should get the doctor," Saria gasped, but she could tell by Madam Porter's face that the woman wasn't convinced. She silently cursed her dreadful acting skills, but suddenly had an epiphany.

"Madam Porter," she wheezed as dramatically as possible. "What if it's poison?"

Madam Porter's eyes widened and she gasped sharply. Saria had to bite her lip heavily to keep from grinning victoriously. If there was one thing her chief lady-in-waiting feared more than ill-breeding, it was poison. She was positively paranoid about it.

"I'll get the doctor." Madam Porter stood and raced out the door with new fervor.

Saria climbed to her feet, almost fell to her face thanks to her cumbersome skirts, and finally managed to make it to the wardrobe. She opened the doors and when Alden tumbled out he was laughing almost too hard to breathe.

"That was incredible!" he gasped between peals of laughter.

Saria couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not, so she just pushed him toward the door.

"Now I have to hide from Madam Porter for the rest of the day. She'll be livid."

"You're right, that presents a problem," Alden sobered up immediately. "You should ask your bird friend for advice on how to proceed."

Saria glared and Alden burst into laughter again.

"I should have left you locked in the wardrobe," she muttered, managing to herd him out the door. "Meet me in the library in an hour."

* * *

"You're not coming, Rae," Drake said firmly as he shoved supplies into a leather bag Astra had given him. 

"Naima's going!"

Drake looked up from his work with a meaningful glance.

"Not because she was invited."

Ravyn looked heavenward, frustrated.

"I don't understand why I can't--"

"It's dangerous."

"Right, because the last time you left me behind somewhere I was incredibly safe," she snapped sarcastically.

Drake looked at her sharply.

"I did what I thought was best for you."

"I think I'm old enough to know what's best for me."

"I don't."

Ravyn made a face. She could tell by Drake's sharp responses that he was losing patience. She would have to tread carefully.

"If it's so dangerous, why are you going?"

Drake sighed and stopped packing long enough to actually look her in the eye with his reply.

"I can take care of myself."

"And I can't?"

Drake resumed packing without a reply. Ravyn frowned deeply and crossed her arms. She abandoned the decision to tread carefully.

"I'm going."

"You're not going."

"I am."

"Ravyn--" Drake began warningly.

"Drake, if you leave me here I swear I will steal a horse and follow you anyway." Ravyn smiled the slightest bit when her brother stopped what he was doing and looked at her. She knew then that she had won the argument.

"I'll go pack," she said happily, walking away with a victorious skip in her step.

Naima smiled as she passed and sauntered casually over to Drake.

"You know," she said nonchalantly. "It wouldn't hurt to relax a little."

Drake glanced at her wordlessly and secured the buckle on the bag.

"Don't you have a bag to pack?" he asked coolly, shouldering his bag and standing up.

"My bag is always packed." Naima snatched her overstuffed bag and climbed onto a barrel. She slipped the leather strap over her head so it rested like a sash against her body and flung out her arms to catch the stifling afternoon breeze. "A free spirit must be free to roam, or else--"

"The spirit dies—a flower without sun, a flame without oxygen," Drake finished, looking unimpressed at her need to climb on things in order to make statements.

"You've read Avalyn!" Naima's hazel eyes were dancing with pleasant surprise as she dropped to sit on the barrel. "I never suspected that such an educated gentleman as yourself would consider a lowly Tevouin's words worth reading." Her characteristic smile was playing on her lips.

Drake leaned in slightly.

"I never suspected that a lowly Tevouin such as yourself could read." The smile hinting at his lips was much harder to detect.

Naima found it though, and her smile deepened. She rather liked his tactless humor. It was refreshing in a way, perhaps because they both knew he wasn't going to offend her, no matter how hard he tried.

"Astra taught me. I was never interested in swordplay or target practice when I was younger, so Astra showed me a stronger weapon—words. Avalyn's works are my favorite though. I think she has such a lovely way of stating the truth."

Drake watched her for a second then turned.

"I think most of what she had to say was frivolous rubbish."

Naima slid off the barrel and smacked him playfully on the back of the head. She skipped to the left so when he whirled around to face her, she was behind him again.

"Of course you think that," she said, giggling. "I'll bet those are the exact words your tutor used."

"I can think for myself." Drake turned to face her.

"Then why don't you?" Naima's eyes and smile were sparkling teasingly.

"You're somewhat annoying," Drake informed her.

"But you like me though, admit it." She jabbed her finger into his chest. He didn't look down this time, so she flicked his nose anyway. "I'm challenging."

"That's one way to put it."

"Deny all you like. You're not fooling anyone." She smiled knowingly and walked away, humming her favorite tune as if all was right in the world.

Drake watched her retreating figure and wondered why he couldn't disagree.

* * *

Saria looked unbelievingly at the book Cadmus pressed into her hands. The weight of knowledge gleaned on one man's epic journey toward the Forbidden East felt heavy in her hands. 

"I want you to have it. Yes, yes, yes." Cadmus bobbed his wrinkled head repeatedly. "To help you actually see the world." A grin was deeply set in his aged features. He was ecstatic when Saria and Alden told him of their plan.

"Thank you." Saria traced the old, cracked leather binding pensively. Once upon a time, the yellowed pages had been fresh and blank. Cadmus' friend's journey had filled the pages with words and sketches. The book was overstuffed with extra pages and various odds and ends. A string bound it closed.

"Cadmus, we need you to help us find the best way to the East," Alden said.

"I have maps. I'm afraid that's all I can offer."

"Why don't we go the way he did?" Saria set the journal onto the table. She untied the string and the pages fell open easily. She began flipping through them. "Look, he mapped out the route he took. All the way to the docks by the sea."

Alden looked over her shoulder and nodded.

"That's perfect. But we don't even know if or when ships are sailing in that direction."

"The shipping logs! Jackson has mentioned them before. They're in my father's study."

"So let's go get them."

"No one is allowed in there! And besides, he keeps it locked."

"Not a problem."

"Of course, I forgot my magical ability to walk through walls." Saria rolled her eyes and looked at him. Alden chuckled.

"I'd like to see that sometime, but no."

"You do realize what 'locked' means, right?"

"Relax. I can pick the lock."

Saria raised an eyebrow incredulously.

"You're joking."

"It's not that hard. My friend Joss showed me how. Comes in handy when the caretaker locks the tack room to keep me from going riding."

Saria considered him silently for a moment and shook her head.

"You lead a strange life."

"Not until you came along."

"You came here, remember?"

"Fine, are we going to get the shipping logs or what?"

"Well, let's go."

Cadmus was chuckling. They both looked at him.

"What?" Saria asked self-consciously.

"You ask me for help, but I think together you two will be unstoppable." He nodded thrice. "Yes, yes, yes. Unstoppable."

Saria smiled the slightest bit. Being around Alden somehow made her bolder, less anxious. Maybe that's what she needed to survive the insanity she'd signed onto.

"You're sweet." She gave Cadmus a hug. "We'll see you later."

Her father had designated the northeast wing of the castle as his private quarters. Except for certain servants and guards, no one was allowed to step foot there. Saria had accidentally ended up there when she was younger. Cyrus had yelled so loudly as he dragged her back to the main hall it made her ears hurt. She remembered sitting on the floor where he deposited her for almost an hour, crying and cradling her bruised arm. Jackson had found her and sat down beside her when she refused to move. He told her funny stories until she laughed.

As she and Alden neared the northeast wing, Saria closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath, wishing for better times. Something in her gut whispered that she could have those times back, if only she could save her brother. The thought strengthened her resolve and she was only slightly terrified as they stopped right around the corner from the forbidden door. Saria seemed to be doing a lot of forbidden things since she'd met Alden.

"What if we run into a guard?" she whispered. Or worse yet, what if they ran into her father?

"You worry too much. You know where the study is, right?"

"Yes." She paused. "Maybe."

Alden looked at her, appearing slightly worried for the first time.

"Well, which is it?"

"Before my mother died, she used to bring me there all the time."

"But?"

"That was a long time ago," Saria admitted.

Alden sighed and was temporarily troubled, but he shook his head and snapped himself out of it. He couldn't let himself forget the fading bruises on his face and torso, his personal reasons for wanting to leave. He had to get out of this place and away from Grey.

The man was waiting quietly behind every corner, watching in threatening silence. Alden had managed to avoid him, though sometimes it meant avoiding Saria as well. He regretted that. He regretted that Grey's threats had shaken him.

"What's the worst that could happen?" he muttered.

Saria opened her mouth to express to him all types of 'worst' things that could happen, but he had already slipped down the corridor and through the door. Saria cast a worried glance over her shoulder and hurried after him.

Her palms were sweating and her knees were shaking. Saria was certain that her thundering heart could be heard a mile away. Yet, strangely enough, she was having fun. For all practical purposes, she was flirting with death and she couldn't keep the smile off her face. She had never done anything this foolish in her life; it was exhilarating.

"Is something funny?" Alden breathed as he scouted around the next corner.

"No…yes." She bit back a giggle. What had gotten into her?

"Wonderful. Now, can I at least have a hint?" He gestured to the split corridors.

"Umm..left? Maybe right."

"Great. Now that we've narrowed it down…"

"It's definitely left."

Alden started down the left corridor, but immediately whirled on his heel and pulled Saria back the way they came. Saria held her breath and closed her eyes, bidding the wall to suck them in.

The guard walked past. A single glance to the right and he would have seen them. Mercifully, his gaze didn't stray. As soon as he had disappeared down the right corridor, Alden grabbed Saria's hand and pulled her down the left.

"Please tell me some of this looks familiar."

Saria considered.

"It does."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

Saria's brow furrowed and she looked at him.

"I said yes."

Alden shrugged, a mischievous glint echoing in his gray eyes.

"I thought I'd make sure. You've been a bit indecisive the past few minutes."

Saria made a face and gave him a small shove. She couldn't believe that they were in the middle of tempting fate and he still found the time to tease her.

Footsteps clipped the stone floors around the corner. Saria bit her lip and glanced back. There was no way they could make it back around the corner before the owner of the footsteps came into view. They were trapped. The consequences of being caught flashed through her mind in one terrible, paralyzing jolt and in a split second Saria made a decision. They were not going to get caught.

Her hand flew behind her instinctively and came in contact with a door handle. It gave a muffled click under the weight of her hand and the door swung inward an inch. Alden saw it and reacted a split second faster than Saria. He pushed her into the room and followed, shutting the door half a breath before the guard rounded the corner.

Alden kept the handle turned tightly in his hand, not letting the mechanism slide into place for fear that the click would alert the guard. The footsteps faded and Alden released the handle with a sigh of relief.

"You don't belong in here."

Alden and Saria whirled at the voice. A round, old chambermaid was busily dusting an end table. She barely glanced up.

"We…uhh…" Saria stuttered.

"Don't bother making excuses, miss. I've heard so many in my lifetime that I can feel lies in my bones."

"Very well." Alden said, casually prodding at a shelf full of various odds and ends. "We're sneaking into the king's study so we can see the shipping logs in order to aid our epic adventure to the Forbidden East."

The old maid glanced up sharply. Saria glared at Alden. What was he thinking?

The maid considered Alden for a few seconds as he examined a tarnished hourglass, very deliberately not looking in her direction. Finally a smile broke onto her thin lips.

"Cute. But if you two are looking for a place to be alone, you can just say so. I can keep my mouth shut." She picked up a bookend and dusted underneath it with a reminiscent glint in her eye. "I remember what it was like to be a young lover."

Saria's mouth dropped open in indignation. She took a step forward, fully intent on setting the bustling old woman straight.

"We're--"

"So glad that you understand," Alden inserted smoothly, very artfully jabbing Saria with his elbow and pushing her toward the door. "Now if you'll excuse us, we'll leave you to your work."

The maid looked up with a smile and shook her head at the spirit of youth.

"How'd you know she wouldn't believe you?" Saria whispered in the corridor after he closed the door behind them.

He shrugged.

"I didn't. I figured she'd either dislike Cyrus enough that she'd be amused that we were breaking into his study or she would dismiss us exactly like she did. Or…" He grinned and trailed off.

"Or?" Saria prodded.

"She'd be won over by my devilishly charming good looks. In any event, she wouldn't call the guards on us."

Saria rolled her eyes and smiled. He was quick on his feet, if a bit unorthodox and unable to take the majority of things seriously. She peeked around the corner. It really did look familiar. In fact, she was pretty sure that the potted plant against the wall meant that the study was close.

When they finally found it, there was no doubt in her mind that it was the right door. The tall, imposing mahogany frame stood in stark contrast to the regular oak doors and it stood out starkly in her memories.

"What if he's in there?" she asked in sudden horror as the thought occurred to her.

Alden knocked on the smooth wood. Saria's jaw dropped open and she could have slapped him. He was truly insane.

There was no reply.

"Guess he's not in there," Alden said with a grin.

"What if he had been in there?" she demanded.

"I imagine we would have had to run really, really fast—do you mind?" he pulled out one of her hairpins without waiting for her permission and began fiddling with the lock.

Saria frowned and tucked the newly loosed golden lock behind her ear. After two breathless minutes of waiting, the door lock gave way with a resounding and satisfying click.

"Please tell me you at least know what these shipping logs look like," Alden said as he locked the door behind them.

"I think it's your turn to contribute to this endeavor." She decided to ignore the fact that so far he had done pretty much everything. Something bumped into her calf and Saria muffled her subsequent shriek with both hands. She was pretty sure that her heart stopped.

Alden spun around and frowned.

"How did that get in here?"

Saria forced herself to look down. Two solemn amber eyes looked back at her. It was the gray cat from the garden.

"Well, my father certainly didn't let it in." She stooped to scoop the cat into her arms, hoping he wouldn't scratch her again. The cat purred contently. "He hates cats."

Alden looked at the door with a slight frown, obviously wondering how the cat had managed to get past a locked door. He finally just shook his head and headed for the shelf behind the huge oak desk.

The cat jumped out of Saria's arms and padded casually behind the desk. He watched Alden curiously as he rifled through the books and papers on the shelf. Finally the cat rose to his hind legs and dug both sets of front claws into Alden's calf.

"Oww!" Alden jerked and turned sharply. His elbow knocked two large books and a sheaf of papers off the shelf. Alden peeled the cat off his leg and dropped it to the floor. The cat landed lightly and immediately began grooming its paw obliviously, as if nothing had happened.

"I hate cats," Alden muttered, kneeling to gather the papers.

"He's just fickle," Saria said as she bent down to help. One of the books lay open. She scanned the page and smiled. "This is it. These two books."

The door handle turned. Saria and Alden jerked up and looked at the locked door. Someone was muttering curses outside. Saria recognized the voice immediately. It was Cyrus. He must have forgotten the key. He started bellowing for the guards and walking away; slowly his voice faded down the corridor.

"That's our cue." Alden jumped to his feet, scooping up one of the books. "We'll just have to take them with us."

Saria nodded and grabbed the other book. Her stomach was twisting into knots at the realization that they were just a hairsbreadth away from being caught. Alden unlocked the door and opened it quietly. Immediately they heard voices and footsteps right around the corner. Cyrus had found a guard with keys and they were headed for the study.

It was a terrible moment. Both Alden and Saria froze.

The cat squeezed between their legs and bolted around the corner toward Cyrus and the guard.

"Was that a cat?" Cyrus roared, still out of sight. "How did a cat get in my castle?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Did I ask you? Go catch it!"

"Yessir." The footsteps of the guard raced in the opposite direction.

Alden looked at Saria and she looked back at him. They had just been given a very small window in which to escape. Saria started running first, willing her feet to be quick and silent. She could feel Alden right on her heels.

Together they flew through the corridors to the door that opened into the main hall. Saria's hands were shaking so hard that she barely managed to twist the handle. She pushed open the door and tripped on her skirts after three steps. Unable to catch himself, Alden sprawled to the floor with her.

For a few seconds they just laid there, heaving relieved breaths and feeling their pulses pound through their ears. Alden started laughing first and Saria joined him, hugging the book to her chest and wondering how they had managed to pull it off.

Alden climbed to his feet slowly and started to close the door. A grey streak flashed past his ankles and around the corner. Alden looked down with a slight frown and glanced at Saria.

"Was that the--"

They could hear the pursuing guard coming down the corridor.

"Run!" Alden snatched the second book off the floor and dragged Saria to her feet.

She was still laughing and together they raced right out the main doors and into the courtyard where the sun was shining as if all was right in the world.

* * *

When Kat was told that Astra wanted to see her, she couldn't help but feel nervous. She didn't know why, but her stomach was tying itself in knots as she stopped in front of Astra's tent. 

Astra stepped out.

"Let's take a walk," she said, not stopping.

Kat bit her lip and fell into step beside her. Side by side, they meandered through the camp. Astra remained silent, watching the surroundings with a slight smile on her lips. A gaggle of children were in the Circle, pulling on the makeshift leash of a huge dog to get it into the pool of water for a bath. Three grandmothers were sewing busily in a tight circle, chatting amiably. A young mother cradled her baby in her arms, crooning gently with a smile on her lips. All was well in the Tevouin camp.

"I'm not sure if I can teach you anymore, Kat," Astra said finally.

Kat frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it's time I stop teaching, and it's time you start learning."

"I don't understand." Kat shook her head. "I've learned so much from you."

"But not the important things, I'm afraid." Astra's lips were set in a hard line. "Not the things you need to learn."

"Is this about the fights?" Kat licked her dry lips. "About the knife?"

Astra sighed heavily.

"I want you to go with Rowe to Cullum."

Kat opened her mouth to complain, and then she realized what Astra had said.

"Are you serious?" she asked, confused. It was unheard of for a Tevouin not signed onto the ranks to be sent on a mission.

"I discussed it with the Council and they agree. You've got some lessons to learn that can't be learned here. Besides, I know you and your brother used to hike in that mountain range. You probably know it better than anyone else here."

Kat nodded thoughtfully. Her brother used to take her there all the time. They would climb for hours, just exploring and not saying a word. She always liked that they didn't have to talk to grow closer.

"It could be dangerous, Kat. If you don't feel comfortable going, then I want you to stay put." Astra felt she had to say it, but she knew there was no way Kat would ever stay put.

A slow grin grew on Kat's face, and Luke's rescue party grew to five.

* * *

((A/N: Milkeh is cool. Slipshod is sooo the grasshopper. That is all.)) 


	19. Danger

"_Danger is a flirting temptress, a surly siren. She beckons you near with the seductive promise of adventure, and you never see her arrows as they pierce into your heart." _

_--The poet Ettne _

The setting sun baked the red sands of the Great Desert in a warm, golden glow. Twilight rested on the horizon, beckoned by the cool evening breezes trickling from the west. The Tevouin camp was animated with the common meal's excitement. Dancers spun in the firelight, children chased each other gleefully, and food was piled high on plates. The exhilaration carried across the dry air all the way to the horizon, where five riders had momentarily stopped.

Naima had been the first to rein in her horse, pulling the mare around to face the way they had come from.

"What's wrong?" Drake asked, nudging his horse next to hers. Rowe was engrossed in an argument with Kat, who was adamant about taking the lead. Ravyn was busy adjusting her stirrups; she had finally gotten the chance to saddle her own horse and still hadn't managed to do it right.

"Nothing," Naima replied airily, eyes lost in the faraway glow of the Tevouin camp. "Just getting one last look."

"You know we'll only be gone for a couple of weeks?"

Naima smiled lightly.

"I know, but a single glimpse can forever capture a memory, and the sweetest of memories are family, friends, and--"

"Home," Drake finished.

"Are you going to do that every time I quote Avalyn?"

"Probably." At least she hadn't decided she needed to stand on her horse in order to make a statement.

"For someone who thinks Avalyn's words are frivolous rubbish, you sure know a lot of them."

Drake shrugged indifferently and was about to reply, but Rowe interrupted.

"Nai, if you forgot something, we aren't going back to get it." He had just won the argument with Kat and was feeling authoritative, now that his position as leader had been reaffirmed.

"I didn't forget anything," Naima assured.

"Then why did we stop?"

"No reason," she replied blithely, winking at Drake and pulling her horse around Rowe's to head toward Silvern.

Rowe muttered something under his breath and rode after her. Ravyn, Kat, and Drake followed suite and soon the five horses were flying once more into the last rays of the setting sun.

* * *

Saria was not used to early mornings. In fact, if the sun had not yet risen, she didn't consider it morning. Every day, before the broke into the sky, a chambermaid would come into her room and stir the smoldering fireplace back into a roaring fire. Usually Saria would roll over and fall back asleep. This particular morning, she rolled over but kept her eyes wide open. It made her head hurt.

When the shutting door signaled the maid's departure, Saria rolled out of bed. She was so sleepy she could barely tell which way was up, but somehow she managed to change into the simple gown she'd "borrowed" from a closet in the servants' quarters and pull her bag out from underneath the bed. She barely remembered to take the folded parchment out of a drawer and lay it on her pillow.

The castle was eerie in the darkness before dawn; occasionally she could hear a rat skittering across the stone or a servant yawning. She kept her head down and the bag hugged close to her chest. Somehow she made it all the way to the gardens without being stopped. Everything around her was dripping wet with the fresh scent of rain. It had poured all night long.

They had agreed to meet at the well. Saria glanced around nervously, but there was no sign of Alden. Hopefully he hadn't gotten caught swiping some provisions from the kitchens. She smiled a little, thinking of all the excuses Alden would no doubt come up with if he was stopped. The harried old cook would probably chase him out with a broomstick.

Something nudged her foot. She would have jumped, but she had gotten used to the gray cat by now. The feline leaped onto the edge of the well easily and stared expectantly at Saria with eyes that flickered in the bare light that crept into the sky. She picked him up and smiled as he pressed his head underneath her chin and mewed with his peculiar croak.

"It's not coming with us."

Saria started and whirled on Alden.

"You scared me," she said accusingly.

Alden lifted his hands peaceably.

"I didn't mean to."

"Well, if the cat wants to come, he can come," she said authoritatively.

"What's it going to do, sit in the saddle?" He crossed his arms.

Saria looked down; he made a good point.

"It's not coming," Alden repeated, dropping the bucket into the well. They had two waterskins to fill.

"Could you at least stop calling him an 'it'?" Saria hugged the cat a bit tighter. Usually animals disliked her, maybe because they could sense her hesitant nature. But this cat seemed to like her well enough. That made Saria feel indebted to him somehow.

"Are you afraid I'm going to hurt its feelings?" he grinned impishly as he pulled up the bucket.

The cat hissed and jumped back to the edge of the well. He sat down and began licking a paw nonchalantly, not taking his amber eyes off Alden. Alden eyed him for a few seconds and shook his head.

"That thing scares me."

"He's not a 'thing'!" Saria insisted, holding a waterskin for Alden to fill. "And he's just a cat."

"A creepy cat." Alden finished filling the first waterskin and started to take a sip. The cat extended the claws on one paw and dug them into Alden's arm.

Alden cried out in pain and jerked back. The waterskin fell from his hand and vanished down the well. A faint splash sounded its demise.

"You brought that on yourself," Saria snapped, pulling the cat away before Alden could toss him into the well after the waterskin. "You shouldn't have insulted him."

"It's a cat! It doesn't even know what we're saying."

Saria bit her lip. He made another good point.

"Just stop insulting him," she said sullenly, holding out the other waterskin.

The next task before them was that of procuring transportation. One of the perks of being a princess was that suspicious stable boys were not allowed to deny her request when she arrived at the royal stables and demanded a pair of horses. That same stable boy did, however, look incredibly annoyed that she had roused him at the crack of dawn.

"Whaddya need 'em for?" he asked with a yawn as he stumbled out of his little nook and into the main part of the stables.

Saria decided to forgive his very rude questioning of a royal personage. She was grumpy in the morning too.

"We're going riding. Why else would we need horses?" She'd never been riding in her life, and she had a feeling the stable boy knew that.

"Well, d'ya want palfreys or destriers, then?" There was a crooked smile on his dirty face and Saria knew he was complicating things on purpose. She briefly wished she was as ruthless as her father, so she could have him tossed in the dungeons for his impertinence. That would teach the little waif to try and confuse her.

"Coursers, if you please. The princess would like her first ride to be…exhilarating." Alden came up behind her at the tail end of the conversation. The stable boy looked annoyed that his game had been ended by someone with a bit more knowledge of equines than her royal highness, but he finally just yawned and headed toward the back of the stables.

"The best you have!" Alden called after him. "We can't have her majesty riding a second-class gelding." He winked at Saria and crossed his arms as the boy led out two horses by their halters. One was pale and the other brown with a black mane and tail.

"The fastest I got." There was an unmistakable hint of pride in the boy's voice as he patted the white one fondly. His gaze snapped to Saria. "These ain't beginner horses. Both of 'em will buck you as soon as--"

"She likes to learn on her feet," Alden cut in before the stable boy could scare away Saria's resolve.

"Give 'em an inch and you won't be on yer feet for long." The stable boy chuckled.

Saria didn't see the humor.

"Alden," she started nervously as he walked around the horses, examining them thoughtfully.

"Relax." Alden pointed his finger at her sharply to nip her fear in the bud and looked at the stable boy. "She can handle it."

The boy shrugged halfheartedly.

"Wha'ever. She'd better take Merlin though." He indicated the white one with a nod. "'Cause Artax can smell fear." As if to emphasize the point, the brown horse snorted and rose temporarily on its hind legs, coming back down with a menacing thud.

Alden couldn't help but smile.

"Nice." He loved a challenge.

"Not nice," Saria snapped. "I don't want to die."

Alden rolled his eyes.

"Those are perfect. Please saddle them," he told the yawning stable boy and grabbed Saria by the arm. "Can we talk?" He dragged her several feet away.

"Let go," Saria shook him off and crossed her arms stubbornly. "You told me you'd find an easy horse for me to ride."

"Coursers are bred for speed and endurance. The only ship sailing East leaves in six days. Our only chance to make the distance in that time is on those two horses." He jerked his thumb back toward the two equines, which were being saddled with surprising deftness by the stable boy. He was probably in a hurry to catch a few more minutes of sleep before the stable master arrived.

Saria bit her lip. Merlin was chewing his bit angrily, his pale flanks heaving as the saddle was cinched. She knew that the second she sat in that saddle the horse wouldn't hesitate to buck her right off.

"Saria, look at me." Alden took her shoulders and looked her in the eye. "Do you want to save your brother?"

Saria took a deep breath and nodded. Of course she did. Alden pushed her gently to face Merlin head-on. "Then get on the horse."

* * *

The sun was setting on the last day in the Month of the Fox. The harsh desert heat was slowly dissipating, giving way to another chilly desert night. Three Tevouins and two Silvernians were about to undertake a second night of hard riding. In the Great Desert, traveling after dark meant fewer rests and less water used.

Drake was impressed by the Tevouins' well-versed knowledge of the desert's harsh landscape. They had angled southwest the first night and ended at a small outcropping of rocks where a small underground stream bubbled to the surface. They had spent a day's sleep in a damp cave of sorts, refilled the waterskins, and were now heading northwest—directly toward the heart of Silvern.

Rowe promised Drake that they would be out of the desert by the time the moonlight—and their water supply—ran out. The Tevouin horses took to the red sands like fish to water and handled the distance with ease. In all truth, the desert's dangers were nothing in the face of a little knowledge and planning.

Ravyn was too busy trying to convince Kat that swordplay paled in comparison to archery to worry about anything else. Drake had the urge to roll his eyes. He had a feeling his sister wouldn't worry if the sun fell from the sky. She always had her head wrapped around nonsense like those fairy tales she liked to read and whether swordplay or archery was more efficient.

Sometimes he wondered if she had the right idea, letting everything lighter than immediate death roll off her back like water off a duck's. But he also knew that the gravity of their current situation required at least one of them to stay grounded in reality. He had yet to figure out how he was going to mend the pieces that the rebellion had left Silvern's throne in. Maybe that was part of the reason he had agreed to tag along on this little endeavor. Maybe a part of him was hoping that the familiar scent of Silvern's chilled, sunless air and the dismal beauty of its craggy mountains and bleak hills would somehow help him solve the problem his life had become.

To his right, Naima was lost in her own little world, humming her favorite tune under her breath and staring up at the stars that were peeking out from underneath a blanket of black. Ahead, Kat and Ravyn had ended their argument in a draw. Ravyn caught up with Rowe and tried to convince him to stop for a few minutes so she could adjust her stirrups.

"You had a chance before we left!"

"They weren't wrong when we left."

"Everyone else can saddle their horses right on the first try, why can't you?"

Drake could only hear pieces of their conversation after that, because Rowe spurred his mount into a slightly faster speed to lose Ravyn. Unluckily for him, Ravyn had insisted on riding lessons as soon as she was old enough to sit in a saddle, so she could easily keep pace on a horse, even if she couldn't saddle one. Their spirited debate continued several lengths ahead.

Drake observed the side of his sister's face as she turned to argue with the Tevouin captain. Even in the sparse glow of the moon and stars, he recognized the light in her eyes. His mother had that light once, every time she told her husband Richard that he was insufferable and then kissed him on the cheek because for some unfathomable reason she loved that man.

Drake felt heat travel up his spine as Ravyn reached over mid-stride and tousled Rowe's hair teasingly. Rowe veered his horse away, but not before returning the favor. Drake didn't know why his sister's laugh troubled him. Normally he would kill to see Ravyn happy. But he couldn't stand the thought of his little sister toying with the notion of romance. He didn't know if her earlier accusations that he was prejudiced against the Tevouins were true or not. Maybe that was what irked him, or maybe he just didn't want to think that Ravyn was old enough to discover romance.

Their mother had been sixteen when she married Richard. She had died at twenty-five giving birth to a stillborn child. She had still been young and beautiful, still vivacious, still very much like Ravyn was now. Maybe that was what scared Drake.

His reflections were interrupted by Naima, who yanked her horse's reins so suddenly that it reared and twisted. It was a wonder that Naima kept her seat. As her horse settled there was a dark look on her face, a very disparate expression compared her usual, airy demeanor.

Drake brought his horse around in a wide circle and stopped next to her. Kat followed suit, a half-curious, half-annoyed expression on her face. Rowe and Ravyn noticed shortly that the rest of the party had stopped and came trotting back.

"What now?" Rowe complained. "We're never going to--" He stopped short, eyes drawn to the horizon where Naima's attention was glued. His mouth dropped open slightly. The horses began stomping nervously and the steady westward breeze picked up.

Drake glanced at Naima, but for once she wasn't chatting with the wind. Perhaps her invisible friends weren't to blame for the gusts that began swirling sand around the horses' hooves. He looked back to the horizon, unable to see what had Rowe and Naima on edge.

"It's not the season…" Naima said softly.

"Tell the sandstorm that." Rowe hadn't pulled his eyes away from the eastern horizon. The horses were slowly working into a panic.

Sandstorm?

Drake looked back to the dark horizon. The night was heavy by now, and he couldn't see anything. Suddenly he realized what was missing. In the distance, the blanket of stars was shrouded by what appeared to be a thick cloud, but the cloud was not confined to the skies. It stretched from the heavens to the earth, a virtual wall of violently churning sand, and it was moving straight toward them at a deadly pace.

"What do we do?" Ravyn asked, actually sounding worried.

"We ride. Fast." Rowe's horse twisted in a fretting circle, fighting Rowe's control.

"No one's ever outrun a sandstorm," Naima said plaintively. She didn't sound scared, just resigned.

"That's no excuse to sit here and die," Kat snapped. A convincing argument, Drake thought, and so when Kat spurred her horse into a gallop he followed, hesitating only long enough to make sure Ravyn was doing the same.

Five horses flew across the cool desert floor. Behind them, a wall of sand traveled at a violent pace, its greedy fangs aimed straight for their throats.

* * *

((A/N: So I realized I haven't tortured you with a cliffhanger lately. Hope you enjoy. Three notes: 1) The cat needs a name. Any suggestions? 2) The real cat that the fictional cat is based on has a picture on my profile. His name is Frank Sinatra 'cause he croons just like our mysterious feline friend. 3) I'm putting up my very first poll. Have a look-see?

_Frostfire or Iceheart: _Heh. I appreciate your impatience. Your review spurred me on to victory with this chapter. I might still be languishing otherwise. And I promise I considered your suggestion with the triangle, but sadly it just would not work very well with the master plot that is slowly unfolding behind the scenes. Plus, Saria and Alden are traveling East while Drake and Co. are, in fact, going West. Sorry, but thanks for the suggestion!

_Simba-- _Thanks for pointing out that typo. I fixed it.


	20. Hope

_"Hope is a creature easy to catch and hard to hold onto. Once it's gone, it is almost impossible to retrieve." _

_ --Avalyn _

Saria ached from head to toe. Every single muscle cried out in protest. Even her hands hurt, thanks to the blisters that the leather reins were burning into them. There was nothing she wanted more than a feather bed and a bucketful of cold water to soak her hands in.

They had been riding all day and she was sick of being jostled on this stupid oaf of an animal. Merlin had thrown her eight times in the first half hour. She knew because she had a bruise for every time. The fourth time she hit the ground, Alden had to physically drag her off the grass. Merlin didn't even seem to notice the agony he was causing her. His elongated strides hadn't so much as faltered since they began. It wasn't fair.

Beside her, Alden was reining in Artax. He hadn't been thrown once, and not because the stubborn horse hadn't tried. When they first set out, Saria had watched in open-mouthed horror as Artax kicked, reared, and spun mercilessly. She was positive that Alden was going fall off and be trampled to death beneath those violent hooves. But after almost ten minutes of the frenzied agitation, Artax finally gave up. Alden had just smiled victoriously and patted the animal's neck, as if the horse had been merely bonding and not trying to massacre him.

Saria realized that she was going to have to stop Merlin. The last time she tried, the horse had tossed her into a puddle with infuriatingly little effort. She bit her lip, squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled back on the reins.

Merlin came to a reluctant stop. Saria opened her eyes shakily, and relief washed over her, mostly because she was still in the saddle. Alden guided Artax beside her and pointed down the hill to their right.

"That's where we need to go," he said. Saria followed his finger and wrinkled her nose at the small cluster of twinkling lights at the base of the hill which marked a tiny town.

"Why?"

"We need a guide."

"We have a map."

"A map that requires us to ride through Fairden Forest."

Saria sighed. He was right, of course. Fairden was incredibly dangerous, partly because it was infested with all sorts of nasty creatures, but mostly because it was notorious for twisted, tricky paths—paths that led an unwary traveler deep into the forest's heart and then vanished. Some whispered that the trees were enchanted, moving with an intelligent and malicious will in order to confuse anyone foolish enough to traverse their home.

But through Fairden was the only way to the Forbidden East, so Saria grudgingly acquiesced to entering the dirty little hovel that someone had the nerve to call a town. She certainly didn't want to get eaten by an angry beast, or an angry tree for that matter. The wild and weird stories surrounding Fairden Forest were not in short supply. Maybe a guide was a good idea.

Alden led the way into the town with a purpose, as if he'd been there before. They rode into a fenced-in courtyard beside a rickety shack where a man was snoozing in a chair, his chin resting on his chest and a half-empty bottle of rum dangling in one hand. Alden didn't bother waking him and instead tied the horses to a post.

"We won't be here long," Alden told Saria as he helped her half-climb, half-fall out of the saddle.

"You've been here before," Saria said in an accusing tone, trying to ignore the shooting pains through her body. Her muscles were stiff and aching. She was surprised she could stand on her own.

"So?" Alden raised an eyebrow. "It's a tavern, not a den of murderers."

"But it's so…dingy."

"Hmmm," Alden tapped his chin in mock thought. "It's almost like we aren't in your fancy castle anymore. I wonder if this is what the real world is like."

Saria dropped her head at his sharp sarcasm. She knew a reprimand when she heard it.

"I'm sorry. I'm just not used to all this." Saria let out a long breath. When she looked up, Alden was smiling.

"I guess I can't blame you. If Leonard had his way, I wouldn't be used to any of it either."

"Who's Leonard?" Saria asked as they walked to the entrance of the tavern. Her thighs felt as if they were on fire. She hated horse riding.

"The caretaker of my father's estate and my self-proclaimed warden." Alden's grin widened and he pulled open the door. "I used to pretend to visit my Aunt Margaret every month. Instead my best friend Joss and I would explore the countryside. We used to come here a lot."

"Why?" Saria tried to sound more curious than disgusted as they walked into the foul-smelling atmosphere of the empty tavern.

Alden shrugged.

"Interesting people." He sat down on a stool next to a patron who was hunched over the bar.

"Visiting Aunt Margie early this month, eh?" The man swirled the liquid in his mug and took a long drink.

"Nah. I ran away," Alden said casually.

"Nice." The man nodded thoughtfully and took another sip.

Saria rolled her eyes. They sounded as if they were discussing the weather. Jackson was dying—this was no time to beat around the bush. She cleared her throat sharply. Alden jumped slightly as if he'd forgotten she was there.

"Oh, this is Saria."

The man turned and looked at her. He was at least forty, with shaggy hair and an unkempt beard. Streaks of gray flecked his chestnut hair and his green eyes were slightly bloodshot.

"Mmm," he grunted, acknowledging her with a brief nod. "Pardon if I don't bow, your highness, but…well, I just don't feel like bowing." He shrugged and took another pull from the mug.

"Nice to meet you too," Saria said lightly.

Alden was chuckling.

"This is Rhodry," he told Saria. "He's been through Fairden several times."

"I also rode a dragon once."

Alden and Saria looked at him strangely. Rhodry shrugged again and looked back at his drink.

"Sorry, I thought we were stating random facts about ourselves." He seemed more fascinating by the mug in front of him than the fact that Alden of the House of Belefas and Princess Saria of Asher were right next to him.

"We need you to help us through Fairden Forest," Alden said.

"You left your plush manor for Fairden?" Rhodry raised an eyebrow.

"We're going east," Saria inserted.

"Fairden is a…wait, east? As in, the Forbidden East?" The man looked between them sharply, drink forgotten. "What business could you possibly have there?"

"Our business," Saria said quickly, cutting Alden off before he could answer. "And maybe whoever signs on to be our guide."

Rhodry smiled slowly.

"Alright. I'm curious."

Alden glanced at Saria with shocked admiration and looked back at Rhodry.

"We just need you to take us through Fairden, and the payment will make it worth your while."

Rhodry considered in silence, taking periodic gulps from his mug. Saria watched him with a raised eyebrow and turned to Alden.

"He's drunk," she pointed out.

"No, I'm not," Rhodry said, setting down the mug on the counter and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I resent that."

"It's water," Alden said helpfully.

"I ran out of money two years ago." Rhodry waved down the bartend, who had a pitcher of water ready.

"And so you waste away here, guzzling water like it's ale…why?" Saria raised an eyebrow.

The man shrugged.

"Good food."

"Which you pay for…how?"

He grinned.

"I guess I'm pitiful enough to exact charity."

"Aye, that." The bartender chuckled as he wiped the counter.

"Curiosity aside," Alden said. "Will you take the job?"

Rhodry looked thoughtful.

"I suppose I can take some time from my busy schedule. But you have to promise that I won't be thrown into the dungeons for kidnapping royalty."

"You won't," Saria assured. "I left a note explaining everything."

"Wait, you did?" Alden looked at her.

"I didn't want them sending out search parties."

"Good idea."

"Well, I've been known to have them." She tossed her hair proudly, artfully hiding her wince at the pain shooting through her muscles when she moved.

Rhodry laughed shortly.

"I'm sure everyone at your castle will be perfectly fine with the crown princess deciding to run away." His tone was exceedingly sarcastic.

Saria frowned slightly. He was right.

"Maybe we should hurry and leave then."

"Fine, but as soon as the royal guards show up, I'm out." Rhodry swallowed down half a mug of water in one gulp and stood up.

"Fine," Saria said coolly. "But when a tree tries to eat you in Fairden, I'm not helping you."

Alden just laughed.

* * *

Cyrus mulled over the parchment in front of him, barely looking up when the door to his study opened and closed. The silence in the room was deafening for almost a full minute. 

"You sent for me?" Grey said finally, unwilling to stand quietly while Cyrus ignored him.

Cyrus looked up and waved the letter that his daughter's chambermaid had brought to him this morning. Grey frowned slightly and took the parchment. As he scanned it, the frown on his features deepened.

"A regrettable turn of events…" he said after a few seconds of stunned silence.

Cyrus guffawed sharply.

"Indeed. But don't worry, they'll be back soon."

"What makes you say that?"

"My daughter has never been more than a few miles from home in her life. She won't last a day."

Grey wished he knew enough about Alden to make such an assumption. But the truth was that he didn't know much of anything about his son. He'd been on various battlefields during most of Alden's life, and even when all was peaceful he always had a reason to stay away from Asher, where Alden lived in Lara's late father's manor. When she discovered that she was with child, Lara had insisted on staying in Asher's warmer climate to raise her son. Despite the great distance that would separate them, Grey didn't have the heart to argue with her. He loved her so much.

After her funeral, he stayed away from that manor like it held the Black Death. Maybe that was because the boy who lived there looked so much like his mother. Grey couldn't stand seeing Lara every time he looked at his son.

His knuckles burned slightly with phantom tenderness. He had hit his son, hadn't he? Something like shame washed down his back. Cyrus was rambling about something, but the king's voice had faded into a dull mumbling.

He couldn't believe what he had become, what this clandestine plot had changed him into. But he had just been protecting his son. He had to show him the dangers of consorting with the monarchy. If Owen suspected a threat, he would be merciless. The man hadn't been successful in his plotting thus far by turning a blind eye to potential risks to his cause.

The voice in Grey's head had been relentless. He suddenly couldn't ignore it anymore. It was still whispering now, telling him that his guilt was ill-founded. He had done what was necessary. Silvern had to come first.

He had just been trying to protect his son too. How had he gotten to this point? Suddenly the king's study felt small and suffocating. Cyrus's droning voice was hammering like a mallet against his skull. With the weight of his actions on his shoulders, Grey suddenly couldn't breath.

Cyrus was in the middle of explaining the finer points of his plan to renovate the east wing of the castle when the door clicked open and shut once more. Cyrus looked up from the drawings mid-sentence. The general was gone.

* * *

Moonlight brushed across the red earth of the great desert, slowly fading as clamorous sands climbed violently to the heavens in a chaotic dance. Five horses flew across the sand, carrying their riders at a breakneck speed in a hopeless attempt to outrun the sandstorm that was closing in fast. 

Rowe's voice rose above the din.

"Nai!" he shouted breathlessly, pointing southward. A dark shadow rose in the distance. It appeared to be a tall tree. Naima nodded and angled her horse to follow Rowe's. As one, all the riders changed course.

The tree was dark and sagging with decay. A thick trench ran beside it, the only remnants of a spring that had dried up long ago. Naima slid off her horse and ran to the long ridge of a rock that protruded from the ground. Her feet sank into the loose sand and she fell to her knees by the rock, scooping away sand with her hands.

"Give me a hand!" she shouted over the loudening roar of the approaching storm. Everyone complied and before long the tightly compacted sand collapsed, revealing a small grotto dug into the earth under the rock.

"We set up camp here once, before the spring dried. This was where we stored grain," Naima panted.

It was perfect. It faced away from the sandstorm and was deep enough to protect them from the brunt of the storm.

"Ravyn, go," Drake grabbed her arm.

"Where's Kat?" Rowe asked suddenly.

Everyone froze. Rowe jumped to his feet and scanned the dark desert.

"There," Ravyn said, rising beside him and pointing.

Kat's horse was several hundred yards away, on its side and not moving.

"She's trapped under the horse. It must have stumbled," Naima said anxiously.

The sandstorm was approaching swiftly. Rowe cursed under his breath and grabbed the nearest horse.

"Rowe, wait," Ravyn cried, grabbing his arm before he could mount. "You'll…" The word 'die' caught in her throat. The sandstorm was coming too fast. If he went after Kat, neither would come back.

"Wait here," he said, prying her fingers off his arm. His brilliant eyes met hers. "I'll be back."

Ravyn's breath shortened as his horse thundered away, carrying him straight toward the chasmal mouth of the storm. She barely felt Drake's grip on her arm as he pulled her toward the shelter.

"Ravyn, you have to get in," he urged quietly.

A part of her felt like arguing, but she knew that was foolish. She dropped to the ground and slid in feet first. The small fissure was about the size of a small room, but wasn't deep enough to stand up in. She crawled to the back and sat down, hugging her knees close to her chest. Naima and Drake slid in behind her.

The only sound was their heaving breaths. A gentle roar came from behind them, the sound of the coming storm.

Rowe almost fell off his horse as he yanked it to a stop beside Kat. The animal reared violently as the first stings of the sandstorm washed over them.

"You idiot! You shouldn't have come back," Kat cried painfully as Rowe dropped down beside her. Her horse's flanks were heaving weakly. One of its legs was broken.

"Shut up and quit acting like I would have actually left you here," Rowe said sharply, blinking at the sand that billowed around them. He pushed at the horse. It struggled in vain to move and managed to shift just enough for Rowe to pull Kat out from beneath it.

She cried out in pain and doubled over, grabbing her ankle.

"I think it's broken."

"Well, you can either cry about it or get on my horse."

She opened her eyes weakly.

"And what horse would that be?"

Rowe looked up and his heart dropped. The horse was swiftly galloping westward, away from the storm that was practically upon them.

In the grotto, Ravyn forced her racing heart to calm. Her eyes were locked on the entrance to the grotto as she breathlessly waited for Rowe and Kat to slide in to safety. Seconds dragged on into minutes.

With a deafening roar, the sandstorm was upon them. Tears sprung into her eyes, but Ravyn couldn't look away, couldn't let herself give up hope. Naima squeezed her hand and Drake put his arm around her protectively.

She kept her eyes on the opening, willing the two shapes of her friends to tumble in from the deadly storm.

They never did.

* * *

(A/N: Well, I'm sad. Thoughts? By the way, I apologize for not having the poll up earlier. It's on my profile now. Please take the time to cast a vote! P.S. I'm sorry for the triple update alert. I had technical problems with this chapter.) 


	21. Fairden

"_A commission was made by King Frederick forty years ago to fell the trees in the ancient Fairden Forest. An entire season was spent attempting the task. Finally the king was forced to call off the endeavor. One by one, every single woodsman had vanished in the dark wood. The mystery of Fairden's fatal shadows has never been solved." _

_ --__A History of Asher_

Ravyn roused from sleep slowly, waking to the sensation that she had been chewing on rocks. She could hear the quiet voices of Drake and Naima somewhere behind her.

"Should we…" Drake began softly.

"No, we have to keep going. We've already lost a day." Naima's tone was blunt and assertive, rare for her. Her voice was thick and Ravyn could tell she had been crying.

Ravyn had been crying too. Dried tears covered her cheeks and in her foggy mind she remembered sobbing until she fell asleep. A part of her wondered where she was, and another part answered with cold blatancy. Suddenly she remembered why she had been crying. She sat up with a start, coughing as a cloud of sand stirred around her.

All was quiet outside, and small tendrils of moonlight crept into the grotto.

"How are you feeling?" Naima asked warmly, putting a hand on her arm.

"I…" Ravyn shook her head and pressed her lips together. She wasn't fine, but she wasn't terrible. She just felt numb.

"The horses are gone," Drake said quietly. "We'll have to walk."

"All the water…the food…it's gone. How can we survive?" Ravyn asked unsteadily, trying to keep fear from her voice. The horses had no doubt galloped far from their haven in a mad race against the fatal sands.

"We'll manage," Naima said tightly.

"Cullum is almost a week's walk away," Drake said, matching her tone.

"We'll manage," Naima reiterated firmly and crawled through the opening.

Ravyn exited the shelter behind her and looked around the dark desert apprehensively. It looked different than she remembered. All the sand dunes had shifted under the weight of the storm. A shiver trickled down her spine. Somewhere out there, the unforgiving sands had buried Rowe and Kat in their depths. Ravyn suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

When they rode away from the Tevouin camp two nights ago, she had never even imagined the possibility of something like this happening. The novels she had read never included such a terrible twist. Adventure was supposed to be exciting, and it was supposed to end happily.

Maybe Drake was right; maybe all those stories were just fairy tales. What if fairy tales weren't anything like real life? The notion made her head hurt. It was like waking up to discover that the sun has really been a figment of her imagination all this time. And in the darkness that enveloped her now, such a possibility didn't seem unlikely.

* * *

As the sun reached its apex on the seventh day in the Month of the Wolf, Saria could see the tall trees of Fairden Forest rising in front of them like a fortress of foliage and shadows. She could hardly believe that they had arrived. The past week had felt like years. Years of bouncing along on this wretched horse and years of sleeping on a hard ground for only a few hours at a time. She felt like dying most of the time, and the rest of the time she felt like killing someone.

The only ray of sunshine in the clouds was, surprisingly, Rhodry. He had dozens of stories to tell about incredible people in faraway lands that helped Saria escape the tedium of the days. There was Kara of Maelwind, a dangerous bounty hunter with a mysterious past and Thomas de Ghentry, a duke whose problems with love landed him in worlds of trouble. There were dragons and specters, mermaids and bloodthirsty hounds. She had suspicions that most of the tales he wove were more fiction than truth, but she still couldn't get enough of them. Rhodry had such a way of telling them, with colorful descriptions and a matter-of-fact voice, as if they had all happened to him personally and anyone who doubted it was a fool.

Alden rein in Artax a few yards from the path that led into the narrow maw of the forest. The trees seemed to form a barrier between the dark interior of the forest and the rest of the world. Saria could see the apprehension on Alden's face and she knew the same expression was on hers. Only Rhodry seemed unimpressed by Fairden's imposing presence.

"You're not going to get us killed, are you?" Alden asked Rhodry, unable to look away from the looming shadows cast by the gargantuan trees.

The fact that Alden was questioning their guide made Saria more nervous than usual. She looked anxiously at Rhodry, who actually looked like he was thinking about Alden's question.

"We'll probably be fine," the man said finally and spurred his horse into the wood at a steady trot.

"Probably?" Alden demanded, spurring Artax after Rhodry. Artax hesitated for a few seconds, snorting and stomping his hooves, but eventually he gave in.

Saria had a bit more trouble with Merlin. He set his hooves stiffly into the dirt and refused to budge.

"Come on," Saria pleaded, leaning forward to talk in his ear. Alden talked to Artax all the time, and it usually seemed to work. "Please?" She pushed her heels deeper into his sides. The horse turned his head stubbornly and remained solidly in place.

Saria saw his eyes were wide and his ears were pressed back against his head. Maybe he was scared.

"There's no reason to be scared," she said sternly, trying to sound authoritative.

Merlin turned his head away and started poking at the grass with his nose, trying to find a suitable shoot. Saria sighed and rubbed her blistered fingers along the side of his head.

"I guess we're both pretty terrified. But we have to keep going. Jackson needs me." She sat up straight, trying to hold back the tears that suddenly threatened to erupt. She wondered how far ahead Alden and Rhodry were, and if it really mattered. What if they were all going to die anyway? She didn't want to die—she wanted to go to the Forbidden East. She wanted to save her brother.

Merlin lurched into a trot. Saria looked down at him, surprised. She forced her mouth to close and took a deep breath as they left behind the clear sunshine and entered the shadows of Fairden.

"Thank you," she whispered barely, energy captured by the forest as it engulfed them. Merlin snorted, the rhythm of his hooves was lagging, as if he had to force each step deeper into the wood. Saria suddenly felt something change between them, as if their bitter contest had turned into an unsteady partnership. Fairden's dangers had forced them into an alliance. She only hoped that meant he wouldn't try to toss her anymore.

Alden and Rhodry were waiting several yards ahead, their mounts prancing nervously beneath them.

"Is everything okay?" Alden asked Saria, looking between her and Merlin uncertainly.

"Everything's fine," Saria said, and for that brief moment in time, she meant it. Of course, it couldn't last.

"Listen carefully," Rhodry said. "Don't talk to the trees--"

"Why would we do that?" Alden asked.

Rhodry rolled his eyes.

"Now is not the time for questions. Fairden is a tricky place. It can ascertain your deepest fear, your greatest weakness, and use them against you. It will make threats and even promises in an attempt to lead you off the path."

"I'm confused," Alden interrupted. "How exactly does a forest make threats? Or promises for that matter?"

Rhodry very pointedly ignored him and continued his lecture.

"Don't get off your horse. If you see the light of a lantern, ignore it. If you hear a baby crying, ignore it. If your horse changes colors, ignore it. If a branch tries to grab you--"

"Ignore it?" Saria suggested helpfully.

"That might prove difficult," Alden said thoughtfully. Saria nodded in agreement.

Rhodry put his fingers to his temples.

"Let's just go," he muttered, with the air of a frustrated tutor. "Stay close."

Saria and Alden did just that. The path was only wide enough to ride single file. Rhodry took the lead, Saria followed him and Alden rode last. The sunlight trickled through the thick foliage in small, dappled patches. The underbrush was scarce around them and heavy moss cushioned the forest floor. Saria forced her breathing to remain even and prayed that they wouldn't encounter any of the hazards that Rhodry had mentioned, or any of the hazards that had been whispered around the hearth since she was a child.

The mystery of Fairden Forest was a favorite ghost tale used to scare youngsters in Asher. Just thinking about the stories birthed a chill down Saria's back. Surely they couldn't all be true. But what if some were?

A breeze whistled in behind them, but instead of cool relief, it was blistering hot. An immediate sweat broke on Saria's brow and she looked around fearfully as the breeze built into a wind. Rhodry reined in his panicked horse.

"Don't move!" he shouted.

"What's happening?" Saria demanded, fearful of the answer.

"It's threatening us," was the grim reply.

Saria pulled Merlin to a short stop and watched in horror as the forest literally moved around them. In a blur of green and black, the foliage and thick trunks surrounding them writhed and churned, like a great sea of flora. Above them, the very ceiling of the forest twisted and rearranged itself. Beneath them, the forest floor shook and shifted. The horses grew antsy with terror as the unnatural process came to a tumultuous climax.

Saria squeezed her knees tight against Merlin's heaving flanks like Alden had taught her and held on for dear life as the impossible ensued around them. Merlin was spooked by the loud cracking of a branch overhead and his front hooves shot off the ground. Saria leaned forward and tried to keep her seat, but it was a vain effort. She felt herself slip from the saddle and closed her eyes against the madness as the ground came up for a violent kiss.

When she opened her eyes, everything was silent. Deathly silent. The soft grass beneath her was not the woven moss of the forest floor and the crystal blue sky overhead was not the one she remembered from only moments ago. Slowly, the unnatural silence gave way to the familiar bustling of the wood.

She sat up shakily and looked around the small forest meadow with open-mouthed wonder. The grass was thick and verdant, a plush metropolis full of delicate butterflies and gently murmuring bees. The occasional bird swooped overhead, allowing its song to be heard for a brief second before the updrafts carried it back to the heavens. Alden, Rhodry, and the horses were nowhere to be seen.

Despite the charmingly peaceful surroundings, Saria felt her stomach constrict in fear. What had happened? Tentatively, she rose to her feet. Maybe she had fallen unconscious. Maybe they had made it through Fairden. But no, on all sides of the meadow the tall trees loomed. Saria spun around slowly, trying to get her bearings, but it was a hopeless attempt.

"Lost, are ye?" The voice behind her carried the sound of two grinding stones. "Pity, pity."

Saria whirled around and bit back a gasp at the hunched crone in front of her. The hag's spine was disgustingly crooked and easily visible through her threadbare rags. Her black gums held few teeth and one of her eyes was bulbous and red, oozing with puss.

Saria took several hurried steps back and almost tripped over herself in the hasty retreat.

"Please," she said shakily. "Just leave me alone." She had never seen anything so hideous in her life.

"Such a rude creature." The hag clicked her tongue and shook her head reproachfully. She also took a step closer. "A princess should have better manners."

"I'm not a princess," Saria denied weakly.

"Very well," crowed the old woman. "Then I am not a witch. We shall both pretend that we are not what we are."

It took Saria several seconds to sort out what the old crone had said. When she did, her knees weakened drastically and she almost crumpled to the ground. The witch caught her by her wrist.

"There, there," she simpered, stroking Saria's arm with rough, bony fingers. "Don't be frightened." She gave Saria's arm a sudden pinch.

Saria yelped and tried to pull away, but the witch's grip was iron.

"Nice and firm," the woman cackled loudly, prodding Saria's arm as if she were judging a slab of meat's worth.

"Let me go," Saria cried, wrenching her arm away so violently that her shoulder stung painfully. The old woman still didn't release her from her bony claws, instead the witch squeezed tighter.

A lightning flash of pain sparked in Saria's arm from the witch's fingers and traveled through her body in a gruesome whirlwind of agony. When it reached her legs, they buckled immediately and she fell to her knees, arm still in the old woman's clutches.

"Try not to squirm, little one," the witch crooned, with all the sincerity of a mother soothing her boisterous infant. "It won't hurt for but a moment. The blood of youth flows easily."

"What are you doing?" Saria whimpered, realizing that she couldn't move. The witch brought a single, talon-like finger down the side of Saria's neck. It stung sharply and Saria realized that the hag's fingernail had broken her skin.

She watched in horror as the witch brought the bloodstained finger to her toothless mouth and licked away the crimson with her sodden tongue.

"I'm so glad you stumbled into my little glade," the witch said with a crooked smile. A fleck of Saria's blood was on the corner of her lip. "Your blood will make me youthful again. And all that I lost will be regained." She twisted her fingers into Saria's hair and yanked her head back, exposing the violet vein in her neck.

"You'll not touch her, witch." A lilted, but steely voice echoed through the glade and fell like sweet rain over Saria.

The witch pulled back with a hiss and jerked around to face the source. A tall, radiant woman clothed in a gown of green and blue that mirrored the vivacious colors of the glade was standing only yards away, pale hands at her sides, golden hair rippling in the breeze.

"This is not your concern." Hot spittle flew from the witch's mouth with her vehement words.

"You will not touch her," the woman repeated softly, with authority in her features that seemed to outrank even the sun.

The witch's grip loosened and she howled angrily, as if her hand was no longer under her control.

"Not your concern," she said weakly, hunching lower and lower to the earth as the mysterious woman moved closer and closer. Then she vanished, leaving nothing but a foul smell behind.

"Are you well, child?" her savior asked gently, offering a slender hand to help Saria up. Saria took it and marveled at the feel of the woman's skin. It was firm, cold, and white like fine marble, which matched well with the rest of the woman's features. Her hair was like spun gold, her lips like twin lunette rubies, and her eyes like perfect sapphires.

"I'm…fine," Saria managed, not really paying attention to the question as she found herself lost in awe of the woman's majesty.

The woman laughed, a mirthful tinkling of bells.

"Come then, with haste. I will take you to your companions." She began walking with all the grace of a queen, striding across the grass as if it were carpet beneath her feet. Saria followed with significant less grace as she stumbled through the thick grass and tentatively pressed her fingers against the scratch on her neck.

The trees almost seemed to welcome them as they passed between them, as if the stately oaks and elms were subjects and the stately woman their queen. A radiance shone around the woman, like sun on crystal. Saria couldn't help but feel that she had seen her before, but surely that was nonsense, the whole of Asher held no one as beautiful as the graceful creature that led her deeper and deeper into the wood.

"Tell me your quest, child. What is so important that you brave the dangers of my wood?"

"My brother is sick," Saria supplied readily. "We are going to find a cure in the Forbidden East."

"So far away," the woman mused, her steps slowing. "There is not a cure to be had closer to home?"

"No, the East is our only hope." As soon as she said it, the urgency of their mission came into sharp relief. "How far are my friends?"

"Only just ahead," the woman assured. "They were looking so fervently for you. I felt I had to help."

"Thank you."

The woman turned suddenly. Saria stopped short and took in a breath at the nearness of her extravagant beauty.

"I wish to help you more. I can see you love your brother, and I possess the power to heal him."

Saria almost didn't hear the statement. Those sapphire eyes looked so…familiar somehow. But that wasn't possible.

"You can?" she asked, a bit incredulous. But swiftly her doubt was flooded by her desire. "Please help him, I'll do anything."

"You needn't do a thing," the woman said smoothly. "I promise I will help him, just come with me to my home to retrieve my medicines."

Saria's heart lagged a few beats. What was it that Rhodry had said about promises? The woman, sensing her hesitation, smiled reassuringly. Suddenly memories washed over Saria like a hot deluge.

She had been so young, when her mother had passed, but she still remembered that last day. Her mother had stroked her hand, her tired eyes and heartless smile still managing to be reassuring. Her mother had been so beautiful, and her eyes had been the color of sapphires. She had given Jackson those eyes, and Saria was looking into those eyes at that moment. Her mother's eyes.

The woman's gentle beauty was surely her mother's, if vastly exaggerated. Hope and excitement surged in Saria's chest, only to be doused with another stark memory—her mother's lifeless body being lowered into the ground. Mother was dead. Then who stood before her?

The woman's features had rearranged themselves at the sight of Saria's slow realizations. Her golden brow furrowed, and those ruby lips tightened into a hard line.

"Who are you?" Saria demanded.

"Not who you think," the woman answered, her features melting quickly into their usual charm. "Please, child, all will be explained. Come with me." She reached for Saria's arm.

Saria stepped back.

"No." She shook her head sharply, mind spinning.

"Come," the woman's voice was like ice, biting into Saria's veins.

"Stay away from me!" Saria cried as the woman neared. She took several steps backwards and tripped on a root, hitting the ground hard. The woman stood over her, terrible and beautiful in her rage.

Saria found her eyes frozen to the sight. Suddenly something soft rubbed against her palm. Saria could imagine the velvet fur of the strange gray cat without even glancing down. She wrapped her hand under his stomach and forced herself to look at him, hoping his familiar amber eyes could somehow give her the solution to her present situation.

Nothing was there.

Horrified, Saria looked back at the woman, who hadn't moved.

"You will come with me, Saria." Her voice was soft like silk and sharp like daggers. "Saria, Saria…" Her voice suddenly dropped in pitch and adopted a different timbre.

"_Saria…"_

With a jerk and a scream, Saria woke up. She bolted upright and knocked foreheads with Alden, who had been leaning over her.

"Ow," he muttered, sitting back and rubbing his head with both hands. "Are you alright?"

Saria looked around anxiously, the throbbing in her forehead trivial compared to the terror she had just awoken from. The tall, dark trees of Fairden still loomed over them. The scratchy moss of the path was beneath her, and the horses were a few yards down the path, tied to trees and not looking happy about it. Rhodry knelt beside her, his eyebrow quirked and his mouth set in a grim line.

"I…" Saria trailed off, distracted by the cat in her lap and the fact that the scratch on her neck was gone. "I had a terrible dream. There was a witch, and this woman who was my mother, but she wasn't and she promised she could cure Jackson and--" Saria had to stop to take a breath.

"The lady of the wood." Rhodry nodded knowingly.

"She's real?" Saria asked, alarmed.

"No, but she's a recurring element in Fairden's fantasies, or so I've heard."

"I don't understand."

"The moss holds a poison. The first time you touch it with your bare skin, it can send you into a dangerous hallucination."

"It wasn't real?" Saria shook her head slowly; it had all seemed so vivid. Her neck still burned with phantom pain from the witch's scratch.

"On the contrary, the hazards of it are very real."

"She wanted me to follow her to her home. If I had…"

"Let's just be glad you didn't," Alden interrupted hurriedly, pulling her off the ground. The cat jumped to the ground, sounding his toad-like meow. He pranced ahead with all the self-importance of a lion leading his pride.

"How did he get here?" Saria questioned unbelievingly. Her dream was fading swiftly in the face of reality, and suddenly Fairden didn't seem as terrible as the forest of her nightmare.

"It's probably a ghost." Alden helped her scramble onto her horse, very politely holding his tongue when she accidentally kicked him first in the shoulder and then his chin.

"Stop calling him an 'it'!" Saria said exasperatedly, finally settling into the saddle. "And he's just a cat." But as she watched the feline saunter ahead and become swallowed by the shadows that Fairden's mysteries cast over the path, she couldn't help but wonder if that was true.

* * *

(A/N: I'm sorry this took so long. But I'm in my universities big singing/dancing extravaganza and we have 3-4 hour practices every night, so my free time is limited. Please vote in the poll on my profile! P.S. You probably noticed that I renamed this chapter Fairden and used the quote from the last chapter. It fits better for this one.) 


	22. Water

"_I would venture to say that adventure is the water of life. How we thirst for it—drinking greedily until we finally drown in our devastating need for its satiation."_

_--__Ageless Philosophies for a Perpetual Society_

There was something beautifully serene about the way the desert sun climbed steadily to its apex in the wide sky. There was also something fatal about it. And in that lethal beauty, three sunburned, sand-covered, exhausted figures trudged across the vast red sands with a purpose that resembled a funeral march.

A week had passed with all the pace of a lion stalking its prey. The two former royals and the Tevouin certainly felt like prey, with the sun gently sucking the life from their veins. The last sip of water had been a day and a half ago in a muddy stream that trickled from the face of a boulder. That boulder had been the last shade as well. They were forced to sleep by night—only a few tortured hours—and travel by day, for fear that even a brief nap under the sun's ferocity would steal their last breath of life.

Ravyn's legs felt like dried twigs, threatening to snap with even one wrong step. The aching hunger in her stomach had dried up several days ago, when it became obvious that no food would be coming. She had to pinch herself to keep from imagining the delectable dishes they had left behind at the Tevouin common meal. Every inch of her exposed skin was hot and blistered and when she pinched herself the dry skin reminded her of ancient paper, ready to disintegrate.

They should have reached Cullum three days ago, but that was before the sandstorm stole their companions, horses, and hope.

Ravyn's vision started to tilt sideways and she wondered if the air was really shimmering or if that was the onset of delirium. She stumbled and Drake caught her arm, barely holding her up as they pressed forward. She regained her footing and barely noticed when he released her, his grip was so weak. His cracked lips were parted slightly with labored breathing and his cheeks were sunken into his lusterless eyes. Ravyn wondered if she looked like a walking corpse as well.

She was too tired to look at Naima, who was on the other side of Drake. Her persistent, slightly melancholy, humming had ceased after the last bit of water dried from their lips. Ravyn found herself wondering if Naima was even still there, on the other side of her brother, dragging her feet through hot sands of fire and death. Perhaps she had fallen behind hours ago, days ago, and simply succumbed to the sun's leeching rays. Perhaps they were all going to suffer that fate.

Ravyn's morbid, muddled thoughts scared her and she lagged in her steps. Maybe she needed to rest for a few moments, just take a few seconds to sit and gather her last reserves of strength. Suddenly the hot sand seemed a soft bed.

"Could we just…" The words felt foreign and rough in her dry mouth and the word "rest" refused to be spoken. Instead, Ravyn collapsed to her knees. The nearness of the scorching sand frightened her as the shock in her knees sent a brief wave of clarity through her mind. It suddenly occurred to her that she would not be standing back up.

She felt Drake beside her and wondered if he was going to pull her back to her feet. Perhaps there was hope yet. He would help her stand, like he always did, and they would survive the threat of death like they had once before. The whisper of hope surged, then fell. The strong, helping hand never came.

Drake was on his knees next to her, palms loose by his sides and face upturned toward the sun as if awaiting the kiss of death. There was a small _thumph_ in the sand beside him and Ravyn realized that Naima was there, lying on her back, hair knotted around her face like seaweed on the ocean shore. It was in that moment that Ravyn understood the blatant truth. They were going to die here. If Naima could not rise, then no one would.

"You shouldn't be here," Drake said softly to Ravyn, his voice like the scrape of stone against stone. "I shouldn't have let you come."

Ravyn felt a bite at the simple statement. He meant that she shouldn't be dying beside him under a merciless sun. He meant that he blamed himself for her fate.

Her raw, withered hand found his and though she barely had the strength to breathe, she squeezed his fingers. It was the only reassurance she could give, for words had finally dried up inside of her. Her breath of air would be next.

Naima suddenly emitted a small, gargled noise from the base of her throat. A single hand floated to her mouth, as if considering doing something to silence the noise, but it fell short to rest on her chest. She repeated the peculiar sound until finally her lips cracked open and the noise gained form in the dry air. She was laughing.

The exhausting mirth wracked her slender, worn frame as if she was convulsing. Rolling onto her side, she brought her knees to her chest and let her shoulders shake in the uncontrollable laughter.

For a full minute, the strange scene continued. Finally Naima climbed to her feet. It was a slow and painful process, but her success seemed to lend her energy. Two shaky steps brought her forward and she thrust out her arms as if welcoming an embrace.

"You have a funny way of showing it!" she shouted into the skies, her arid voice cracking with every syllable. Then she whirled on her heel and dragged Drake to his feet with new vigor.

"We're close," she promised, talking too loudly for Ravyn's liking.

Ravyn's head was pounding so hard it made her eyes hurt. She wanted to curl up and die here, rather than spend another day walking only to die later. Naima was having none of it though, she pulled Ravyn up with alarming strength and pushed both siblings squarely on the back.

"We didn't come this far to give up. We've lost too much already." The sadness in her voice was barely detectable, but it was present.

Ravyn felt a pang of guilt at her eagerness to give up. If they didn't save Luke from Cullum's churlish citizenry, then Rowe and Kat would have died in vain. The thought of the injustice in that conclusion sent a new fire through Ravyn's sinew and she began walking once more. One foot in front of the other, each step a mile of pain and exhaustion, but each mile a step closer to victory. Perhaps this haggard outcome could bear some resemblance to a fairy tale after all.

* * *

Almost a week passed before Fairden's treacherous shadows were left behind the two travelers and their guide. Once she could see clear sunshine again, Saria perked up and took a keener interest in the journey. Most of the time she had her nose stuck in the travel diary that Cadmus had given her.

The author had said little about Fairden, only a few scratched notes about the local flora and fauna. Saria wondered if perhaps the forest was not always as dangerous as it was now. There was plenty in the diary about the sea shore, which was only a day's ride away. There were sketches of the fishing village, the trade port, and the local variety of clams whose juices were a delicacy.

Rhodry had agreed to travel as far as the sea port with them, where he could buy provisions for his journey back home.

"What about when we return?" Saria had asked worriedly. "How will we make it through Fairden?"

"You mean if you return?"

Saria had made a face at him and Rhodry just laughed.

"Fairden is only dangerous to the inexperienced. You've experienced it now—you'll be fine."

"As long as we don't talk to any trees?" Alden added cheerfully, failing to see any gravity in the situation.

"Aye." Rhodry nodded.

Saria had just fallen silent, wondering sullenly if either of them would ever take anything seriously.

They reached the seashore on the morning of the ship's departure. Saria wondered at the massiveness of the ocean before her. It stretched like a blanket of blue, as far as she could see. Little fishing boats tottered in the gentle waves and a few local children scoured the beach for clams. She had heard about it, of course, but never had she dared imagine that she could see it for herself.

She had never been so simultaneously excited and terrified in her life. They rode a little further to reach the trade port, which had expanded significantly since the author's modest drawing in his diary. Saria gripped Merlin's reins tightly and they maneuvered through the hustle and bustle of the town on foot. People were yelling from all directions about arrivals, departures, and delays.

She waited patiently as Alden chatted with a local vendor about the ship that was to sail East. Rhodry had wandered off with his payment in hand, most likely to get a sip of ale for the first time in years.

"You won't gain passage," the gnarled old man was saying. "She don't take passengers."

"We'll talk to the captain," Alden replied.

The vendor chuckled.

"If you ain't a box of goods, you ain't gonna get on that ship. I've met the captain meself, a real hard-nose. The straight-laced type, you know." He nodded sagely.

Alden just raised an eyebrow at him bemusedly and thanked him for his help.

"What if he's right?" Saria worried as Alden led the way through the crowded streets.

"About what?" Alden asked absently, too caught up in the action surrounding them to pay much attention to her pressing questions.

"What if we can't get on the ship?"

"Then we'll sneak on."

Saria was horrified at the thought, but she didn't voice any more concerns. She had a feeling Alden would ignore her anyway. When they reached the ports, Saria let Alden do all the talking. She didn't like the rough and gruff seamen who looked as if they had braved a thousand hurricanes and lived to scorn anyone who hadn't.

Most of the sailors ignored them. A couple waved in the general direction of a large and stately ship when Alden asked where the _Celeritas_ was docked. When they finally found the right ship, it took them another twenty minutes to locate the captain. He was using a barrel as a table and examining a document in the afternoon sun.

"We don't take passengers," he said without even glancing up. He was a slight man, tall and lean with a weather-beaten face and a square jaw. His hair was pale and long, and his eyes were dark and brooding, like the sea he sailed upon.

"We can pay our way," Alden said, unflinching.

"We don't take passengers," the captain repeated, still not looking in their direction.

"Please, we need to get to the East," Saria begged.

He looked at them for a second and shrugged.

"Not my concern."

A seaman raced up.

"Cap'n Roth," he said breathlessly. "We're short one barrel of lime."

The captain glanced at the sailor with a look of annoyance.

"Check the _Fidelis_. Captain Withers probably swiped it so he could peddle it to his northern traders."

The sailor saluted sharply and ran off.

"Roth?" Saria asked, catching her breath. The captain was barely middle-aged. Surely it couldn't be. Unless… "Are you Jason Roth?" She clutched the diary in her hands tightly. The author had mentioned the name of his son only once, but Saria had remembered it. It was the very child whose birth had ended his journey before its completion. The child that his wife had died giving birth to.

The captain looked at her sharply.

"Why?"

"Your father," she said, a bit dazed at the piece of Cadmus's sad tale coming to life in front of her. "He wrote this diary on his way to the Forbidden East."

Roth's eyes darkened at the book clutched in her hands, but he looked back to his document.

"You're mistaken," he said lightly, feigning indifference.

"You're lying," Alden declared, catching on.

"My father is dead," Roth snapped.

"But he left this behind!" Saria said, suddenly excited. "All of his thoughts! His experiences! His--"

"What do I care?" Roth interrupted bitterly. "The man was a foolish dreamer. I don't have time for such nonsense. I have a ship and a crew to tend to. And you two need to be on your way."

Alden dragged Saria away before she could yell at the man and make him more irate.

"We can't give up!" Saria said anxiously, looking over Alden's shoulder at the captain, who was talking to his first mate and looking generally unaffected by what had just transpired.

"Relax," Alden said calmly. "I have an idea." He pointed to the ship docked beside Captain Roth's _Celeritas. _"Do you see Captain Withers?"

Saria searched the crowd of people and spotted the seaman that had reported the missing lime, arguing with a round, bald man in fine clothes. The man with the fancy garments was no doubt Captain Withers of the _Fidelis_. Saria nodded.

"What about him?"

Alden took the book out of her hands and gave her a little nudge in the direction of the_Fidelis. _"Go talk to him."

"What? Why? What do I say?" Saria asked worriedly, resisting his nudge.

"I don't know. Tell him you know his brother or something."

"What if he doesn't have a brother?"

"Just go!" Alden gave her a harder push and finally she went.

He watched to make sure she was going to obey, then he walked up to Captain Roth and slammed to diary down on top of the document he was surveying.

"Do you know what's in here?" he asked coolly.

"I don't care," Roth replied in a testy tone. "I told you to get lost."

"Suit yourself, but you don't seem like the type to pass up your ship's weight in gold." Alden shrugged and lingered. Slowly, Captain Roth looked up.

"What are you talking about?"

Alden shrugged again, mustering up as much nonchalance as possible.

"It's just your father left a treasure map behind. But if you aren't interested, my friend is in the process of securing Captain Withers and his fine crew's help to find it." He gestured toward Saria, who was in an intense conversation with the other captain. Perfect.

Alden felt a little guilt about lying to Captain Roth about his dead father, but something had to be done. They had to get to the Forbidden East.

Captain Roth watched his rival with a resentful glare for a few seconds. Alden could see the wheels in his head turning rapidly.

"Anchor's up in three hours," Roth said finally. "Be on board." Then he scooped up his documents and walked away.

"What happened?" Saria asked a little while later when they met up again.

"He thinks there's a treasure map in here," Alden said, tossing her the book.

"Are you mad? There's no such thing!"

"By the time he figures that out, we'll be halfway there. What are they going to do?"

"I don't know, throw us overboard?" Saria threw her hands up exasperatedly. "Flog us? Feed us to a sea monster?"

"We'll be fine. You wanted me to get us on the ship, and that's what I did."

Saria fell silent, unable to argue any further. If they were going to save Jackson, she was going to have to get used to pushing the limits. It was a strangely exciting concept.

"Terrific job with Withers, by the way," Alden continued. "What did you talk about?"

"His brother," Saria answered smugly. Alden just laughed.

When they finally found Rhodry an hour later he was in the local tavern, downing a cup of water.

"No ale?" Alden asked with a raised eyebrow. "You're a rich man now."

Rhodry just shrugged.

"It's been two years since I've touched the stuff. I can't see a reason to start now."

Saria wondered for the thousandth time what his story was. What strange occurrences had shaped the man that sat before her? She had asked him once, and he had simply muttered something non-committal and started spinning a yarn about specters who could seduce any man to their whims—sirens of the shore, he called them.

"We managed to gain passage on the _Celeritas_," Alden announced, no little pride in his voice.

"That's terrific," Rhodry said, taking another drink. He suddenly seemed withdrawn, almost forlorn.

"You could come with us, you know," Saria said tentatively, surprised that the words were coming out of her mouth. "It will be an adventure."

Rhodry stared into the empty air for several seconds before finally laughing. The sadness in his tone lifted suddenly and he looked at her with his usual cheer.

"I've had enough adventures to last me three lifetimes."

"You'll have to tell us about them sometime," Alden said.

Rhodry just chuckled and took another drink of water.

"I already have."

* * *

The citizens of Cullum were expecting warriors from the Tevouin camp to come riding into town on fine horses. They were expecting weapons and courage that could vanquish a dragon. They were not expecting the three half-dead travelers that dragged themselves into town with the setting sun.

Orson, the small village's leader, had been interrupted in the middle of his nice dinner by the banging on his door. He pushed his way through the gaggle of villagers that had gathered and faced the three new arrivals with as much authority as he could muster. All three were gaunt, sunburned, and covered with the deserts sands, though Cullum rested almost ten miles from the Great Desert's border. Two of them were obviously Silvernian, with dark hair and light skin that most of Cullum shared. But the female at the forefront had brown hair that fell in unruly curls around her shoulders and skin that was browned by a lifetime of golden sunlight.

They were not the warriors that the villagers of Cullum had been expecting.

The brown-headed female drew herself up to her full, unimpressive height and looked as if she was going to attempt a formal greeting. Instead she shook her head tiredly.

"Water…" she said in a hoarse voice, allowing her shoulders to slump again.

"Are you Tevouins?" Orson asked incredulously, unwilling to believe that these were the ones sent to defeat a dragon.

The young woman nodded barely.

"Are you mad?" demanded a rounded, bustling old woman in angry tones as she pushed to her husband's side. "They stand here dying and you ask foolish questions! Fool!" she slapped her husband upside the head and started issuing orders. "You, fetch water! You three, put them to bed in the chapel. You, start some broth—use the leeks in my pantry."

As if waking from a stupor, the villagers slowly moved to follow the woman's instructions. Orson glared sullenly at his wife as she flew from task to task like an old hen, ordering the village better than he could. Finally he just sighed and went back to his dinner. Let the old hen do all the work. She could nurse the desert devils back to health, and then he would make them save his precious daughter.

That night, after she had been properly hydrated for the first time in days and reassured a dozen times over that Drake and Naima were fine, after she finally realized that the desert was far behind them and they were really alive after all, after she had settled into the knowledge that everything was well, Ravyn began to cry.

She cried all night long, because she could finally spare the tears.

She knew that tears weren't going to bring Rowe and Kat back to life, but she was tired of being strong and Drake wasn't there to see how weak she really was. So she sobbed until she couldn't breathe, and then she fell into a deep sleep that was taunted by terrible nightmares of sand and death and Rowe's face as he told her to wait because he would be back soon.

And unseen in the corner, Drake sat with his back against the wall and his head in his hands, wishing that his little sister didn't have to see the world for what it really was.

* * *

(A/N: I don't like this chapter, that's why I stubbornly waited on my beta's words of wisdoms. But she's sick so I'm all alone and it makes me sad. So, sorry for the wait.

Frostfire: Umm...I live in a dormitory. And it's a closed campus, so you wouldn't be able to get to me. But on the off chance that you could, please don't.


	23. Hate

"_I would call it an unlikely stroke of Providence if any man makes it through life without waking up one morning to find he hates himself."_

_Ageless Philosophies for a Perpetual Society_

On the first night of the voyage, Saria got violently sea-sick. After the fact, she felt that she should have seen it coming—it was her lot in life to be miserable, it seemed. Alden on the other hand never even got queasy. He dashed around the deck making fast friends with the surly seamen and generally having a good time. Saria hated him for it.

She was not in the best of moods to begin with. Just as she had started becoming attached to Merlin, she had to leave him behind at the port. She didn't really like entrusting herself to a bunch of dirty looking sailors, despite the number of times Alden politely chastised her for her snobby behavior. And on top of everything, her muscles were still sore and her hands had begun to develop hard calluses that were decidedly un-princesslike.

By noon of the second day, Saria was beginning to "find her sea legs," as Flip, the first-mate said. He was a short, bald man with bandy legs and a yellowed smile. Saria asked him if Flip was his real name, but he had simply shrugged and said that it was what everyone called him. She had asked him the reason, but he had just shrugged again.

Flip was cheery and bellowing and funny, always singing a little ditty or dancing a jig up the steps from the hold. He showed Saria how to tie a few knots and even let her stand at the helm for a while.

The first-mate was the polar opposite of his captain. Saria wondered why the quiet and stern Captain Roth even liked Flip. Roth rarely left the captain's quarters, and when he did it was only to give some orders to the crew and then disappear again.

Saria felt awkward on deck if Alden or Flip wasn't nearby. The men would give her sideways glares, as if they thought she didn't see them. Flip told her that some sailors still held to the superstitions than a woman on board was bad luck. Captain Roth had been standing there when he said it.

"It's the wind and waves that determine a ship's fate, not who's on board," the captain had said in a solemn tone that was loud enough for all the eavesdropping sailors to hear.

Saria was still afraid that they would toss her overboard given half the chance.

As dusk fell on the second day, clouds began to gather on the horizon and the sailors' glares darkened considerably. Roth seemed to be in a testier mood than usual as he walked from station to station, barking orders to his crew.

Out of the way at the stern, Saria watched in awe and slight terror as the sun set and darkness descended with the might of a furious storm. When the first droplets of rain began diving from the heavens, she decided to retreat below deck to wait out the storm. She didn't like the way the sailors would glance furiously at her, as if all of this was her fault.

As the ship rocked to and fro her stomach began to feel queasy again and she hoped that all this would be over soon. Alden joined her eventually, soaked from the rain and not looking the least bit seasick.

"Heavy storm," he said exhaustedly, collapsing beside her on a wooden crate that had been lashed in place with a rope. "They said it might last through the night."

"Wonderful," Saria muttered miserably, hugging herself and wishing the reeling of her head and stomach would cease.

"Don't worry," he said, mistaking her ill manner for fear. "They know what they're doing. We'll be fine."

At that moment, neither of them realized how wrong he was.

Later in the night, Saria was awoken from a fitful sleep by Alden shaking her frantically. She was already feeling terribly ill thanks to the constant rocking of the ship and the relentless swinging of the hammock she was in, and Alden breaking her from the pitiful semblance of rest she had managed to find was the last straw.

"What is it?" she demanded, slapping at his arm angrily.

"I can't believe you slept through all of this! Get up! We have to go above deck!" He grabbed her arm and tried to pull her up, but Saria fought away.

"Are you mad? There's a storm up there!" The ship was still rocking violently beneath them, and she was quite certain that however bad things were down here, they would be a hundred times worst up top.

"You don't understand, we have to--"

He grabbed her arm again and Saria wrenched away, cutting him off when she flipped out of the hammock. She was greeted by a shock of frigid salt water. For a few seconds of blind panic she flailed in the dark cold that entombed her. Alden pulled her to her feet. She spit salt water for several moments, slowly realizing that the water had risen almost to her waist.

"What's happening?" she asked in a terrified voice. "Are we…sinking?" She didn't even want to think about that horrifying possibility.

"Not yet," Alden assured. "But if we stay down here we'll drown."

Saria allowed him to lead her through the lower deck. Wading through the water was difficult with the ship's heavy swaying. Waves washed back and forth, crashing against Alden and Saria with increasing force. Saria almost lost her footing several times and twice she stumbled enough to get a mouthful of the salty waves.

"Almost there," Alden grunted breathlessly, barely keeping his feet as the ship rocking dangerously beneath them. The wooden steps leading above deck were visible even in the dark.

A wave heaved behind them and Saria glanced over her shoulder in time to see a loose barrel riding the water with enough speed to render them both unconscious.

"Look out!" she cried, with only enough breath to raise her voice above a bare whisper. Something inside of her gripped her limbs and she dove forward, tackling Alden to the floor as the barrel soared over them and smashed against the stairs. For what seemed like an eternity they floundered in the tomb of the icy water. Alden broke the surface first and dragged himself and Saria to the stairs with a last reserve of energy.

"Thanks," he heaved as they scrambled over the remnants of the barrel and up the stairs. Saria didn't have the strength to reply. Instead, she focused on keeping her wits about her as they left behind the chaos below deck to greet the mayhem above.

It was hard enough to stay upright with the rocking of the ship, the lashing of the rain, and the howling of the wind, but the sailors were rushing frantically from post to post, trying to compensate for the hands that had been washed into the cruel ocean, and they didn't have the time to slow down for two struggling landlubbers. Saria almost got mowed over on several occasions as they made their way to the stern, where Captain Roth was gripping the helm with a fury that matched the wind and rain raging around him.

"Find a place and hold on!" he thundered over the roar of the ocean. "We've got to ride her out!"

As if reinforcing his words, the _Celeritas _tipped and sent Saria sliding with a wave to mid-deck. She found her footing at the mass and bit her lip at the fresh blood streaming from her left arm. It was quickly washed away under the torrents of rain and she saw it wasn't more than a scratch from the rough wood. Alden hurried after her with considerably more dignity.

"Are you hurt?" he shouted, brows furrowed with worry under his slick hair that was made dark by the rain.

Saria shook her head no, even though her arm was burning.

"Hold fast!" Roth's voice rose above the din and Saria had just enough time to wonder what he meant by that before a massive wave wracked the ship broadside and the whole deck was buried under the raging salt water.

Under the weight of the sea's heaving, the _Celeritas_ dipped dangerously portside, until the mast nearly touched the surface of the ocean. Saria blacked out for a few seconds when the wave slammed into her.

When she came to her senses, the deck was gliding past rapidly and she realized in one terrifying moment that she was about to slide right off the ship. She threw her hands out blindly and her fingers wrapped around a rope. Just as relief began to fill her, another wave crashed into the ship.

Darkness, salt water, and wood thrashed around her in a tumultuous fury and Saria had the acute sensation that she was about to die. With a tremendous groan, the ship righted itself, leaving Saria clinging to the rope on the side of the ship, half-submerged in the churning waves.

She screamed uselessly into the wind and water as she realized her position. But a part of her already knew that the only way she was going to survive was if she pulled herself up with the rope. The waves tossed her violently and she slammed repeatedly into the hull of the ship like a rag doll until consciousness became a battle.

For a brief second the ship steadied and she took a deep breath. That was when she saw Alden, barely treading water only a few feet away.

"Alden!" she cried, the wind literally tearing her voice from her throat.

He saw her and took a few haggard strokes forward until he could grab the rope below her hands.

"Climb!" he shouted, even though their faces were only inches apart. Saria still barely heard him. She managed to pull one hand over the other twice before she had to stop to gather her strength. It was then that she got a clear look at the rope they were clinging to. It was fraying dangerously thin.

Her heart leapt to her throat and she couldn't breath. The deck was still very far away.

Alden saw the predicament as well and his voice echoed clearly through her head as if the entire storm had silenced around them.

"It won't hold us both."

Every muscle in Saria's body tensed and her eyes met Alden's.

"I'm letting go," he said tightly.

"No!" Saria cried, realizing with a gruesome jolt that a part of her wanted him to. She didn't want to die. Pure revulsion at her own selfishness wrapped her in an icy blanket that was colder than the waves engulfing her.

Another rope dropped between them.

They grabbed it simultaneously, not daring the question the miracle. In a slow, quivering process, Saria pulled herself up with Alden right behind her. When she reached the deck, Captain Roth took her shaking arm and pulled her over the railing to safety. She hit the wood with painful relief and gulped for oxygen. Alden hit the floor beside her, and in a sudden surge of release and exhaustion, Saria passed out.

* * *

Grey spent most of his days at the Asherian castle avoiding King Cyrus. It became increasingly clear as the days passed that Alden and the princess would not be returning any time soon—if they returned at all—and the same could be said of Owen. Grey did his best to stall Cyrus's efforts as Owen had instructed, but it wasn't an easy task. The man was relentless.

Regardless of the inconvenience Cyrus's hounding issued, it wasn't until the fifteenth day in the Month of the Wolf that Grey began to truly realize how precarious of a situation he was in.

"So they haven't returned yet," Cyrus said in a matter-of-fact, almost conversational tone. He had somehow managed to corner the former general in a sunshiny corridor of the castle. Despite the unrest in his gut, Grey stood his ground with cool confidence that was partially feigned.

"Let's hope they are well," he replied after a few moments of contemplation.

"Of course," Cyrus dismissed, jumping eagerly to the real reason of the confrontation. "But there are rumors flying around the castle. Servants tend to gossip, you know. Even the nobles. I can't say I believe the talk, but I certainly understand where it's coming from."

"I'm not sure I follow you," Grey said genuinely as his mind raced through potential excuses to escape the conversation.

"Well such a hasty flight does seem suspicious. There are some who speculate that my precious daughter did not flee of her own free will."

"Kidnapped?" The word broke from Grey's lips before he could catch it. Cyrus had caught him off guard.

Cyrus just nodded. Grey imagined the king was holding back a smirk.

"Of course, there's no evidence of that yet," Cyrus continued smoothly, with false reassurance. "But in the case of such a terrible event there would be recompenses to be made…" He trailed off, letting the insinuation of his words saturate the air.

With a sickening turn of his stomach, Grey realized why the king had not insisted on sending out search parties when the runaways' letter was first discovered.

"I had no knowledge of their intentions," Grey insisted, feeling suddenly like a cornered animal. Or a caged one. The voice in his head was screeching a thousand different things at once.

"Of course you didn't," Cyrus said quickly, deftly switching to the role of ally. "But I would hate for the rumor to spread further. If my people suspected such treachery from Silvernian blood…well…I must respect their wishes if they demand war." He shrugged helplessly, even though Grey knew the man was anything but.

Cyrus probably used such shrewd devices often, and they probably worked on men of lesser intelligence. But Grey had never been accused of lacking intellect, and years on the battlefield had lent him a cold sense of cunning.

"Alden was born Asherian," he said lightly. That seemed to deter Cyrus for a few moments, but he recovered quickly and abandoned his subtleties for a more obvious threat.

"But he is the son of the great General of Silvern. There is no distinction. If my people want war, they'll have it. A pity too, since Silvern has no king to defend it."

Grey knew the Asherian king well enough to understand that if there was to be war, it was because Cyrus wanted it, not the people.

"I think you'll find that Silvern still has means of defending itself," Grey said coldly, alluding to some hidden power that didn't exist. He was grasping at straws and hoping that Cyrus didn't notice. Luckily the king seemed momentarily dissuaded.

"Well, it's all just hypothetical, of course. There is no proof that your son kidnapped the princess."

"Of course," Grey said with a nod, hiding his relief admirably. He knew that Cyrus had just shown his hand though, with a trump card that proved very dangerous indeed.

* * *

When Saria woke up, the first thing she saw was the quiet beauty of a pink morning sky. Mindful of the dizziness that gripped her head, she sat up slowly. She was mid-deck, surrounded by a handful of unconscious sailors. With a ghastly shock, Saria realized that some of them weren't unconscious. They were dead.

Faster than she could blink, Saria jumped to her feet and ran across the damp deck until she was a safe distance away. She sat on the steps that led to the stern and heaved frantic breaths, trying to regain some sense of calm. Around her, the _Celeritas_ drooped from its former glory with a sense of withered doom. The polished wood was splintered and beaten, the ropes were frayed, and the sails were battered. Even the remaining sailors moped from task to task as if the storm had whipped them into submission.

Saria dropped her head into her hands and tried not to cry at the strong sense of loss that surrounded her. Alden sat down beside her.

"Well…that was a close call," he said pensively.

Saria glanced at him miserably. He looked as weathered as the rest of the crew with his clothes frayed and torn and his hair disheveled and stiff with dried salt water. Saria realized she probably looked the same way.

"We almost died," she said softly.

"That's why it was a close call." He cocked an eyebrow at her. She couldn't understand how he just…recovered from it. How could he treat it so lightly, when just hours ago they had looked death in the face?

She started to cry. It was as if the mouthfuls of seawater she had swallowed the night before were pouring out of her in the form of salty tears. She couldn't stop them. Suddenly, in her state of vulnerability, the weight of everything reached her heart and buried it under a mountain of regret and misery.

She missed her home and her brother and Cadmus and her stubborn horse and that strange gray cat. She missed stupid things, like eating breakfast at a real table and sleeping in a real bed. She missed being safe and unworried.

The thought of what had happened the night before, and what she had felt hanging from that rope passed through her mind and she suddenly missed being too ignorant to realize what a selfish and naïve girl she really was. She hated having to see herself in a true light.

She just wished that she could be like Alden, savvy and unaffected, happy and cocky and unaware that some people hadn't mastered life as thoroughly and easily as he had.

"How do you do it?" she demanded through her running nose and tears.

"Do what?" Alden asked in a very confused voice.

But Saria didn't really want an answer. She didn't know what she wanted, maybe just a chance to get this terrible burden off her chest—this knowledge that she wasn't the decent person that Alden thought she was. She was selfish and scared and angry all at once, all the time. But the confession refused to find words. Instead, something else came out.

"I wanted you to let go," she murmured tightly through her strained throat.

"What?" Alden asked, still confused.

"Last night!" she cried, suddenly invigorated by her own self-loathing. "I wanted you to let go of that rope, because I didn't want to die! I'm a rotten, terrible person and why can't you see that?!"

He just stared at her in silence for a few seconds. Saria didn't know what she wanted him to say or do. Maybe just hate her as much as she currently hated herself, so she wouldn't be alone.

"You didn't want to die…so what? It's only natural," he said finally. "You think I wanted to let go?"

"At least you offered," she muttered brokenly. Somehow she wasn't surprised at how easily he was taking what she had to say. It was his nature, after all.

"You put too much pressure on yourself."

"How?" she snapped. "By hoping to be a decent person?"

"Nobody can just be a decent person by nature. It's what you do that determines whether you're rotten and terrible or not. You didn't push me off the rope, did you?"

Saria met his eyes grudgingly, upset that he could smile so easily at all of this.

"Who says I wouldn't have?" she demanded crossly.

"Well, would you?" he asked, amused.

Saria considered it. Of course not, the thought was unapproachable. Even as she dangled on that rope, an inch from death, the gruesome notion had never crossed her mind. A miniscule amount of the burden on her chest dissolved away.

She was still left with a very terrible feeling. Finally she just bit her lip and let her head sag. Something like a strangled sigh escaped her throat.

"Sometimes I just…" The words clung thickly in her mouth and it took all her willpower to murmur them aloud. "Hate myself."

"You shouldn't," Alden said softly, gently brushing away a tangled lock of her hair. "There's nothing to hate."

Saria wasn't sure if she believed him or not, but the brief sensation of his fingers on her cheek lifted some of the burden anyway.

* * *

Days passed before Ravyn felt strong enough to stand on her own. The desert's hot floor had rubbed numerous painful blisters into the soles of her feet, despite her boots, and they were still tender to the touch. But Drake and Naima had dragged themselves off their makeshift pallets and out of the town meeting house hours ago, blisters and all, so Ravyn decided it was time that she do the same.

It took her longer than she would've liked to admit to get ready and make it outdoors, but once she had accomplished that much, she felt much stronger. Some silently curious townspeople pointed her in the direction of the village leader Orson's home, where Drake and Naima were.

Orson's round and bustling wife Leota greeted her enthusiastically and herded her immediately to the dinner table, which was just being set with a delicious supper that made Ravyn's mouth water. Naima looked happy to see her, but Drake was glaring at Orson, angry at something that had just been said.

"We almost died coming to help you. Two of our comrades did. What are you trying to insinuate, exactly?" Drake demanded hotly.

Ravyn's attention perked immediately. It was the first time Drake had ever referred to the Tevouins as comrades.

"I was just wondering why you didn't come better equipped to help us, if that was your true intention," Orson said lightly.

Drake was about to retort angrily, but Naima jumped in smoothly.

"We are a peaceful people," she said reassuringly. "We mean you no harm."

Her level-headedness seemed to calm Drake sufficiently and when he spoke again, he sounded more like himself—a reserved, diplomatic prince.

"We brought weapons to fight the dragon, as we promised. But they were lost in the sandstorm as well," he said carefully.

Ravyn recognized the half-lie immediately. They had brought minimal weapons. Rowe had a sword, and he had given Kat one the moment they were out of sight of the camp. Despite the gravity of the girl's suspension from training and weapons, he didn't seem very concerned with it.

They hadn't expected to fight the dragon. Astra had told Drake to simply negotiate as well as he could, and win Luke's release. She told Rowe that if all else failed, he was to figure out a way to break Luke free and then they should retreat as quickly as possible to the safety of the camp. She would rather have bad relations with Cullum than four deaths on her hands. "Dragons are deadly business," she had said sternly. "I don't want anybody going near it."

"I don't care if you're the prince—I made a deal with the desert devils and until my daughter is safe, we're keeping our prisoner."

"Watch your tongue," Drake said sharply. "They're Tevouins, not desert devils."

Orson shrugged as if to say, "What's it matter what I call them?" But he didn't disagree aloud.

Ravyn looked at her brother appreciatively, and noticed Naima was doing the same. It was the first time Drake had actively defended the Tevouins. Perhaps the experience in the Great Desert had altered his perspective. Ravyn also wondered why Orson was still being unpleasant if he knew Drake was of royal blood. Maybe Orson didn't care, since Drake wasn't in a position to chastise him. Or maybe he only cared about his daughter.

"Orson, behave!" Leota howled, thumping him on the head with a wooden spoon as she brought in a dish of vegetables. "We've got royal guests, and we must treat them proper." She smiled sweetly at Drake and Ravyn as she mounded helpings of food on everyone's plates.

"If they're Royal, why aren't they doing something at the castle instead of lettin' everything fall to ruin?" Orson mumbled dejectedly.

"Someone tried to kill us!" Ravyn interjected.

"Well fie upon 'im!" Orson thundered suddenly, slamming his fist into the table. "But moping around the desert don't do anyone good, and while you're off hidin', there are dragons and riots and lootings happening in Silvern. So excuse me if I'm not a'bawling over your predicament, but a dragon has my daughter and I'd like someone to care about that!" He finished his spur-of-the-moment speech with a dramatic thump of his fork on the table, and then he began to eat—slow, angry bites.

Silence reigned at the table for a full minute.

"We'll do our best to find your daughter," Drake said finally, his gaze locked firmly on his plate.

Naima looked at him sharply in surprise at the change of plans, but didn't disagree.

"Well, that's just lovely!" Leota chirped cheerfully, as if they had just promised to take a look at the garden. She held up a bowl. "Peas, anyone?"

The sudden banging on the door startled the hostess and she dropped the bowl. The clay shattered and peas went skittering across the floor gleefully.

"Oh dear," murmured Leota, scrambling to gather up the sharp shards as Orson stomped grumpily to the door.

"What is it?" he demanded, flinging open the door. It was the second time his dinner had been rudely interrupted in the past week.

"Orson, you have to come, there's…" the villager's anxious voice faded away as he and Orson headed outside. Through the window, low murmurings from the street rose into a steady din.

"Mercy," Leota said thoughtfully, dusting off her skirt as she rose off the floor. "What could it be?"

Ravyn was the first to jump up and run to the door, followed immediately by Drake and Naima. They went out to the main street that they had dragged themselves down only days earlier with death on their heels.

Ravyn's veins ran cold with shock and every part of her brain screamed that she was seeing ghosts. Everyone had fallen silent. Moments passed like hours and suddenly Rowe stood in front of her. Kat was on his back, eyes closed and head limp, with her arms draped unconsciously over his drooping shoulders.

Ravyn's heart and mind were battling ferociously. Could it be real? Was it simply a wonderful, terrible dream? She suddenly couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

Rowe's eyes met hers. They were bloodshot and infinitely tired, but still as blue and alive as she remembered. And she knew this wasn't a dream.

"Thanks for waiting…" he heaved in a scratchy, painful voice. Then he collapsed at her feet.

* * *

(A/N: I tried to kill them, honestly. But Rowe started up this petition, whining about he was important to the plot or something, and then Kat jumped on board and my lawyers told me it would be best to concede the point. No Beta for this chapter. I think she ran away.-sadness- Give me a cookie to make me feel better? Oh, and read Slipshod's stories. And vote in my poll. That is all. )


	24. Right

"_Those who speculate about the gray areas between Right and Wrong are often very much mistaken. They forget that gray is a mixture of white and black, but white can never be black. So how can Right ever be wrong?" _

_--Avalyn_

Captain Roth stood at the helm of his once pristine ship and stared into the waves. His hands were clasped behind his back and he seemed unmoving despite the_Celeritas_'s gentle rocking.

Saria stood a safe distance away for several minutes, gathering her nerve, but finally she walked up beside him. The careful and elaborate speech she had been practicing for the past hour immediately deserted her and she was left with nothing but--

"There is no treasure map." The blunt words left her with a feeling of satisfaction and terror. But she had no desire to remain on this vessel with the lie hanging over their heads, especially since the captain had saved their lives. She held her breath and braced herself for rage.

Nothing.

"I know," he said simply.

"What?" she asked, shocked. "How?"

"That friend of yours isn't as good a liar as he thinks he is."

Saria took a deep breath.

"But why did you let us come aboard?"

Captain Roth seemed to consider for a few moments.

"It was the right thing to do, I suppose," he said finally.

"Why are you so angry at your father?"

He looked at her sharply. Saria knew it was an untactful question at an inappropriate time, but she simply had to know.

"He's the reason my mother's dead."

"What do you mean?" The bittersweet story Cadmus had told her still rested heavily in her heart and she didn't remember it suggesting anything of the sort.

"He left on another of his foolish sojourns when I was a baby. My mother lost the means of supporting herself and wasted away waiting for him."

"That's not true!" Saria cried.

"That's what he said," Roth said coolly. "His own words. I was fourteen when he told me, and I left the very next day. I'll never forgive him."

"But he--" She caught herself and paused. None of that was true, of course. Roth's father had cut his life dream of reaching the Forbidden East short in order to return to his wife. She had died giving birth. But why would he lie to his son about it?

Unless he hadn't wanted his son to blame himself. Unless he would rather be the one his son blamed. The deep, deep love of a father for his son made Saria want to cry. He had been so selfless. He had sacrificed a lifetime with his own flesh and blood so his son wouldn't have to feel guilty. It was heart-wrenching.

Suddenly Saria couldn't bring herself to reveal the truth. Wouldn't that make the sacrifice of Roth's father completely worthless? But surely Captain Roth was reasonable enough now to understand that his mother's death wasn't really anyone's fault. However, if she did tell him, he would have to face the knowledge that he had rejected his father for a lifetime, and for no reason.

There was no way to know for sure how he would take it, and so Saria remained torn. She could allow Roth to hate his dead father for the rest of his life, or risk making him hate himself. What was the right course of action?

"There's more to it than you realize," she said weakly.

He didn't reply.

"You're the princess, aren't you," he said finally. It wasn't a question.

A thousand denials sprung up in Saria's throat. But she knew they would be pointless.

"Yes."

"And why do you feel the need to go to the Forbidden East?"

"My brother is dying. I have to find a way to save him."

Roth nodded slowly.

"Then I did the right thing," he said quietly, and Saria couldn't help but wonder if he was reassuring himself.

* * *

Rowe and Kat remained mostly unconscious for three full days. Occasionally one of them would wake up, mutter unintelligibly for several minutes, and then pass out again. Naima and Leota took advantage of the waking moments to pour leek soup down their throats. Ravyn just paced worriedly, wishing she could do something to help.

On the fourth day, Rowe sat bolt upright and asked for water.

"You're awake!" Ravyn cried excitedly, dropping to her knees beside his cot.

"I feel like death," he muttered, dropping his head into his hands.

"Understandable," Naima said, brushing into the room with a jug of water in one hand and a small clay pot in the other. "You almost died."

"How's Kat?" Rowe asked, grabbing the pitcher from Naima before she could pour him a cupful of water and started gulping.

"Her ankle is severely sprained and she's unconscious, but she'll live."

"Good," Rowe said, pausing for a few breaths of air.

Naima took the opportunity to snatch the pitcher from him.

"Swallow some," she ordered, shoving the clay pot into his hands.

Rowe took one look at the contents and shoved it right back at her.

"I'm fine. I don't need any of the red goo."

"It's called reserin, and you do need it."

"Rowe, you almost died," Ravyn insisted.

Rowe ignored them both and swung his legs around so he could stand up. Naima shook her head exhaustedly and went to tend to Kat, who was stirring. Rowe stood up shakily and almost collapsed immediately. Ravyn caught his elbow and nearly fell with him.

"I'm fine," Rowe repeated, he regained his balance and started taking measured steps toward the door. "I need air."

He seemed strong enough, but Ravyn kept her hand under his elbow just in case, even though if he did fall she probably wouldn't be able to hold him up by herself. She still didn't move her hand. That little bit of contact soothed and reassured her. It wasn't just a dream; he and Kat really were alive. The day was chilly, even for Silvernian standards. The sky was its normal shade of pale gray, masking the sunlight and providing no contrast to the craggy peaks that lay south of Cullum.

"Rainy day," Rowe commented, tilting his face toward the heavens.

"It's always like this," Ravyn said. For the first time since their arrival, she suddenly realized in full force that they were in Silvern. She had always known that, of course, but she had never really though about it. This was her home, the pale sky and the crisp air, not the bright sun of Asher or the red sands of the Great Desert. How could she have forgotten so easily?

"How's Luke?"

"They won't let us see him."

"Is he dead?"

"I don't know."

"What about the people here? What are they like?"

"They're good people. The leader, Orson, is just desperate to find his daughter. But I don't think they would have killed Luke."

"They don't have the right to keep him here. I don't care how good or desperate they are."

Ravyn cast a sideways glance at his raw and sunburned face. His jaw was set in a hard line. She thought about his imprisonment at the Asherian castle. He had been there for weeks, at least. Maybe even months. She tried to imagine trading in a desert full of freedom for a cramped dungeon, and wondered how he had ended up there in the first place. Drake's warning at the camp rang quietly in her head, but she decided that now wasn't the time to ask.

"I'm glad you're alive," she said quietly, because she had yet to say it aloud.

"Me too," he said absently, surveying the jagged outline of the mountains against the sky. He looked distracted. Troubled.

A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Ravyn. She pulled her hand away from his arm nervously.

"Are you…angry that we didn't wait for you?" She bit her lip, mind racing with a thousand different things that could have been done differently in the Great Desert.

Rowe's gaze snapped to her.

"No," he said with a slight frown. "Why would you think that?"

Ravyn looked away.

"You did the right thing," he insisted. "You had no way of knowing..." he trailed off.

Ravyn thought about the morning after the sandstorm. If it weren't for Drake and Naima, she might have never left that grotto. She probably would have stayed there in misery until she died. Was she even cut out for this kind of world that she admired so much? Drake certainly was, and he would rather sit in a library and read a book.

"It's hard to know what the right thing is," Ravyn said. It was hard to know what to do at all. She thought of her life only a month earlier, and how much simpler everything was. What if Drake was right? What if the world she was born into was the world she was meant to stay in? The thought settled bitterly in her stomach.

"It gets easier," Rowe said finally.

Ravyn could only hope so.

* * *

A few hours later, Kat was awake and alert. The five travelers from the Tevouin camp gathered under one roof and talked in hush tones.

"It hurts," Kat muttered, wincing and tenderly fingering her swollen ankle.

"Well, it's very nearly broken," Naima said gently.

Kat just grimaced.

"Do we at least know where Luke is?" Rowe asked, sounding tired. No one said anything. "Great," he mumbled.

"We've done the best we can," Drake said testily.

Rowe failed to look impressed.

"As soon as we find Orson's daughter--" Ravyn began.

"Wait a second," Rowe interrupted, holding up his hand. "No one said anything about actually finding the girl."

"We're here to find Luke," Kat said irritably.

"The only way to save Luke is to satisfy Orson," Naima said quietly.

"Nai, you know as well as I do—dragons don't kidnap people. His daughter is probably dead." Rowe stared at Naima, confused as to why she was suddenly dissenting from the plan Astra had laid out for them.

Naima just looked politely at Drake, who had begun to pace.

"You don't know that she's dead," Drake said. He sounded calm enough, but Ravyn could detect some frustration tainting the edges of his tone.

Rowe looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"What do you suggest? Trying to slay the dragon?"

"That's impossible," Kat said. "We would all die."

"I suggest that you pretend like you care enough to at least look for the girl," Drake snapped, his control over his temper all but lost. "Isn't that the whole reason we're here?"

"We're here to find Luke," Kat repeated sullenly. But no one could deny that Drake at least had a point.

"She's dead," Rowe said carefully. "And we'll all be if we go off on some half-cocked mission to a dragon's lair. It's idiotic."

"I would have thought idiocy was right up your alley," Drake snapped, not helping the tension in the room at all.

"Drake, stop it," Ravyn said quietly. She still wasn't sure of her position on the whole argument. She knew that Orson's rant had struck a chord with Drake, and he wanted to find the girl to prove that he wasn't a worthless prince. But she also understood that they couldn't risk getting themselves killed for someone who was probably dead anyway.

"I'm going to look for her," Drake said finally, after taking a few seconds to collect himself. "I don't care if you help or not." He left the room.

Rowe threw his hands up in the air exasperatedly and muttered something about pompous royals. Then he stormed out the back door.

Ravyn, Kat, and Naima glanced at each other and wondered silently why conversations always ended with Drake and Rowe stomping off in opposite directions.

"Should I go yell at him?" Kat asked helpfully. She could have been talking about either one.

"You have to stay off your ankle," Naima said. She looked thoughtful for a few seconds, then stood up and followed Drake.

Ravyn was secretly glad that she was going after Drake. Her brother was a stubborn pain when he got it into his head to do something. She stood up.

"You're just going to leave me here?" Kat complained. "I'm already bored to death."

"We have to talk some sense into them," Ravyn insisted.

"And what sense would that be?"

Ravyn had no idea, but she went out the back door anyway.

Rowe was staring eastward with his arms crossed, thinking. Ravyn wet her lips and tried to think of something rational to say.

"He just loves Silvern, that's all. He was raised to be prince, and he's frustrated at the way things have turned out." She stopped a few feet behind Rowe.

"Are you?" He didn't turn around.

Ravyn wasn't sure how to answer him.

"We need your help." She said 'we' because it suddenly occurred to her that no matter what, she was going to stand behind Drake's decision. He was her brother. She would follow him.

There was a pause.

"Let the great prince of Silvern handle it," Rowe said finally.

Ravyn frowned and stomped forward.

"What's the matter with you?" she demanded, yanking on his arm so he had to face her. "Drake is only trying to do what's best for everyone!"

"Then he should help me find Luke so we can get out of this bloody village!"

"What about Orson and Leota? What about their daughter?"

"I've already told you, she's probably--"

"Dead? Like you and Kat? Should we just walk away then?" Her frustrations piled up in her throat and her voice came harsh and hot.

Rowe looked at her for a few seconds, just breathing.

"You did the right thing in the desert," he said softly, looking eastward again, toward the Tevouin Camp and toward home. "You survived."

She wanted to hit him.

"How can you think that? You and Kat were alive! We should have waited longer, or looked for you. How can you--"

"Because that's the way things are, Ravyn," he said bitterly, looking at her. "There's no room for fantasies about happy endings. We have to do our best with what we have, and if things happen to work out, then that's grand. But otherwise…" he trailed off.

Ravyn frowned deeply. He didn't sound like the Rowe she knew. Or thought she knew.

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, barely able to form the words.

"It's the truth," he said, turning away.

"But why?" She couldn't understand it, or maybe she didn't want to. Surely life wasn't just a miserable string of happenstance; surely there was more to it than just trying to survive.

All was still except for a gentle breeze.

"I walked for a week through that desert," Rowe said finally. His voice was strained. "Kat was unconscious most of the time. I was sure she was going to die, right in front of me. And I was sure you were all dead." A visible tremor ran through his tight jaw and he glanced at Ravyn. "I thought you were dead."

"But I'm not. We're not." She could barely imagine the hell he had walked through. At least she'd had Drake and Naima to pull her forward. "Doesn't that mean something?"

"It means I'm not going to make the same mistake twice. We're finding Luke and going home, before anyone has a chance to get themselves killed."

Ravyn suddenly realized that Astra had put Rowe in charge of this mission. It only made sense; he was a captain. But that also meant that if anything happened—whatever happened—it was his responsibility. She wondered if it was the weight of this responsibility that had birthed his new pessimistic philosophy about life. She then decided that it would take more than reason to persuade him. It would take cunning. She had become a master of manipulation with Drake, and Rowe was more susceptible.

"Well, you know Drake won't go with you. He's going to find Orson's daughter."

Rowe didn't say anything.

"And the dragon," she prompted.

"He's going to get himself killed," Rowe said, not sounding overly concerned. But at least the conversation was headed in the right direction.

"Well, I'm going with him. And Naima probably will too."

He cast her a sideways glance, and she knew she had him.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded tiredly.

"Do the right thing."

"And get everyone killed in the process? How is that the right thing?"

"You know it is!" The wrong thing would be to take Luke by force and run home. The wrong thing would be to leave Leota and Orson without hope. She knew that more than she had ever known anything. She might have a hard time knowing the right thing to do, but she could certainly recognize what was wrong.

"It's not that simple," he insisted.

"Well, maybe you're the one making it complicated."

He looked as if he was about to say something, but he stopped, considering. His blue eyes found hers.

"You're something else…" he said softly, shaking his head.

"Does that mean yes, then?"

Rowe sighed.

"Fine. We'll take a hike. But no longer than a day."

Ravyn was satisfied.

* * *

Naima slipped quietly out the front door and found Drake. He had made it halfway to the middle of the town's main street and stopped. Villagers were going about their daily lives, occasionally casting curious glances in the direction of the frustrated Silvernian prince.

"Please don't try to talk me out of it," he said quietly as Naima approached.

"Why would I do that?" she asked, surprised. He just looked at her.

"I'm proud of you," she continued. "You're doing the right thing."

"Don't sound so shocked."

"You did surprise me," she admitted. "When you promised Orson you'd try to find his daughter. I was too bogged down by everything that had happened to see the big picture."

Drake couldn't imagine her bogged down by anything. But she had thought that Rowe and Kat were both dead. The Tevouin were like family. He couldn't fathom what losing Ravyn would be like.

Naima touched his arm lightly.

"Everything will be all right," she promised. "You'll see."

He wanted to ask how she knew that for sure, but he didn't. For some unimaginable reason, he trusted her.

* * *

(A/N: My Beta is on a temporary hiatus. Please forgive any typos/terribleness. And thanks for the cookies. You're dolls, all of you. Notes: The poll result was a tie between Naima's eccentricity and Rowe's cockiness. I put up a new one, go vote! And keep reading Slipshod's stories.)


	25. Adventure

**Special thanks for this chapter: InChrist-Billios, who graciously agreed to be my temporary beta. **

"_In Asher, adventure comes with horses galloping across seas of grass and ancient forests filled with mystery. In Silvern, adventure lurks in the mountains, where the rocks are sharp as swords and there is danger behind every bend…"_

_--__A History of the Civilised World_

The more curious citizens of Cullum had gathered around Orson and Leota's humble abode. The most assertive of the bunch managed to make it through the nervously tittering crowd and press up against the windows and door. The conversation indoors was private, of course, but that didn't stop the citizens from shushing each other incessantly as each tried to hear what was going on inside. It was quite a commotion.

The two Tevouins who had recently arrived were a lot louder than the others, and a lot more demanding. The villagers had grown used to the solemn prince, his lively sister, and that smiling, eccentric young woman who occasionally talked to thin air. The Tevouin captain who had dragged himself and that hot-headed girl into town a few days earlier was not solemn in the least. He was constantly moving, constantly asking questions, and very adept at discerning when his questions weren't being answered truthfully.

A few of the children insisted that he was great fun, and had even shown them a few fancy maneuvers with their stick swords after dinner the previous night. The mothers of those children only looked embarrassed and scolded their youngsters to stay away from the captain. Tevouins were dangerous, everyone knew that. The other mothers just pulled their children close and tried to look as if the notion of their flesh and blood consorting with Tevouins was unimaginable, though everyone knew that any one of their youth could easily be drawn in by the wild and precise skill that bled from the Tevouins, by the sense of unattainable freedom they embodied. There was something captivating about it.

And that was why half of Cullum had gathered around Orson and Leota's home—to hear the argument between their leader and the Tevouin captain.

"You have to let us see him!" That was the captain, young and angry.

"Not part of the bargain!" There was Orson, stubborn and lofty as always. No one really liked him that much, but everyone respected him. He had pulled the village through many a tough time, though some speculated that it was Leota who did most of the pulling.

"What bargain? You took him hostage!" That was the fiery young lass with the red hair.

"The Tevouin council promised me help."

"Against bandits, not a dragon! You lied to us, and then you took Luke captive." The redhead again. Just from her tone, the villagers wondered if she could spit fire herself.

"Regardless, this is my town. You'll follow my rules. Find my daughter, and your friend will go free."

"We've already agreed to look for your daughter. All we ask is reassurance that Luke is alive and well." That was the Silvernian prince, or former prince. He had been very diplomatic throughout the entire ordeal, and the village was inclined to like him, despite Orson's warnings that Silvern had no need of a prince who couldn't keep his crown.

"And how do I know that once you know where he is, you won't just take him and leave?" Orson raised a good point and the eavesdropping villagers murmured in agreement. They didn't like resorting to trickery, but the whole town loved Orson and Leota's daughter, Freda. She was vibrant and friendly, if a bit spoiled at times. Nothing worse than diseased sheep ever happened in Cullum, and no one wanted their town sullied by the loss of such a young and lively girl.

"How about we just tear apart every house until we find him?" The captain again, sounding aggravated.

"You wouldn't dare!" Orson had donned his authoritative tone, but there was hesitation in it. No one really knew what the Tevouins were capable of. There were stories of course, of brutal savages, but that description didn't seem to fit the handful of peculiar, and somewhat impertinent, arrivals to the town.

"I don't think you understand the gravity of this situation." There was danger in the captain's tone.

The villagers could imagine the scene inside—their short and sagging leader squared toe to toe with the young and assertive Tevouin captain. What a sight to see!

Indeed, the eager eavesdroppers of Cullum were imagining the scene quite accurately. The room was quiet for several moments as Rowe and Orson stared each other down. Finally, Naima decided that enough was enough and stood up.

"Really," she announced incredulously. "You're both acting like children. Orson, what would the villagers think if they could hear such a display?" She glanced at the window as if the villagers could hear the display.

There was some faint rustling outside the window and the more observant in the room began to suspect that they had an audience. Naima certainly seemed to think so. She bit back something that might have been a smile and continued.

"And Rowe, you should know better. We're not here to start a war, for goodness' sake."

Rowe rolled his eyes, but took a step back. Orson seemed to take it as a sign of surrender, and rather than maintain the peace, he pressed forward doggedly.

"And I think you would agree that it's only fair for one of your current party to remain here, so that we can have peace of mind."

"What are you talking about?" Rowe demanded, but didn't step forward to confront Orson again.

"Well, if you think your friend is dead, then you might not come back at all. I need security."

"If you would let us see him, then that problem would be averted," Drake pointed out, eyebrows arched at the absurdity of Orson's position.

"We've already discussed this," Orson said tiredly, as if he were the reasonable one.

"You're mad!" Kat cried. "We're not giving you another captive!"

"We've used force before," Orson warned. "Don't make us resort to that again."

"This is getting ridiculous," Rowe spat. He glanced at Drake angrily as if this whole predicament was his fault for insisting that they try to reason with Orson.

"Please, can't we be civil?" Leota begged as she brought in tea from the kitchen. "I can't stomach anymore of these horrid threats. Why can't one of you dears just stay here with me? It will be perfectly comfortable and safe." She tossed a frustrated glare at her husband. "Not all of us are barbaric."

"Ravyn will stay," Drake volunteered suddenly.

"What? No!" Ravyn cried.

"It's safe here," Drake replied, not looking interested in an argument.

"I'm not staying here," she insisted. "Kat should stay; she's the one with the bad ankle."

"They can both stay," Rowe suggested.

"What?" demanded Kat and Ravyn simultaneously.

"I'm not staying," Ravyn said flatly, glaring at Rowe and Drake in turn. "If you leave me, I'll just follow you. And if I fall off a cliff then it's your fault."

Rowe rolled his eyes. Drake looked pained.

"I can stay," Naima volunteered.

"We need you, Nai. You know more about dragons than anyone," Rowe said.

Drake shot Naima a sharp look.

"You said you didn't believe that dragons existed," he said suspiciously.

Naima shrugged innocently.

"I never said anything of the sort."

"Kat, you're going to have to stay," Rowe said definitively. "There's no way you can go near those mountains with your ankle."

Kat looked like she was trying to find an argument, but failed.

"Fine," she muttered dejectedly. "It kind of defeats the purpose of me coming along though, doesn't it?"

"You can tell us everything you know about the mountain paths."

She didn't look appeased.

"Wonderful!" cried Leota. "Then it's settled. You can leave immediately to find little Freda."

"We'll need weapons," Rowe said pointedly. "If you expect us to go dragon hunting."

Orson was prepared to fashion some sort of argument to that, but Leota jumped in first.

"Of course you shall have some!" she exclaimed. "How ghastly it would be to let you go into those mountains without them. We don't need the horrid things around here anyway." She shot another glare at her husband, and then smiled merrily.

Outside, the villagers began to disperse, whispering amongst themselves about how fortunate they were to have the Tevouins on their side, regardless of how savage they may or may not be.

* * *

The mountain range south of Cullum was riddled with steep pathways and crumbling boulders. Scraggly trees held on with stubborn roots to the sides of the trails and the gravel underfoot was loose. Every member of the small search party had slid multiple times, resulting in a number of bruises and scratches on each person. 

Only Naima had managed to remain cheerful about things thus far.

"This is ridiculous," Rowe grumbled for the eighth time that day as he struggled several yards up a portion of the path that was practically straight up the cliff face. "We don't even know where we're going."

"Kat said to take this path as high as it goes," Drake said as he helped Ravyn get a foothold.

"She also said that in all the years she and her brother explored these mountains, they've never come across a dragon's cave, occupied or otherwise," Rowe pointed out, dropping down to his stomach to give Ravyn his hand.

"It's a big mountain range," Ravyn said breathlessly. Even with Rowe's assistance, it was a struggle to climb the sharp, crumbling rocks.

"Dragons like high altitudes," Naima said, accepting Drake's help. The cloth shoes she was wearing were barely thick enough to protect her feet from hard ground, much less the jagged rocks of the mountain path. She had yet to utter one complaint though, and managed to scramble up the precipices better than anyone.

"Has anyone bothered to wonder what we're going to do if we actually run into this dragon?" Rowe asked as he pulled Ravyn the rest of the way onto the ledge and offered his hand to Naima.

"That can be your job," Ravyn replied graciously. Rowe glanced heavenward and sighed.

"This is assuming we actually make it to the top," Drake gasped out as he dragged himself onto the ledge.

Naima giggled and patted his shoulder. Rowe heaved a deep breath and climbed to his feet. The trail was relatively flat for a distance ahead. They had been walking, climbing, slipping for about three miles now. Everyone was exhausted, and the mountain rose above them for many more miles.

Ravyn's legs and feet were aching mercilessly, and she wasn't even sure if they could support her any longer. The first mile was pleasant enough. The path had been a gentle slope and the earth beneath their feet was soft dirt. Now they were climbing the steep, gravelly trail, scrambling over jagged boulders and edging along narrow precipices.

Ravyn had enjoyed the adventure for the first half of the day, but now that the sun was nearing the horizon she was ready to collapse. But Drake kept walking, so Naima kept walking, so Rowe kept walking. Ravyn decided to keep walking. She had insisted on coming after all.

She blamed some of her exhaustion on the bow and quiver she had slung on her back. Upon Leota's insistence, Orson had shown them a storehouse piled high with weaponry. When Ravyn grabbed the bow, Drake had looked generally disapproving, but remained silent. How could he chastise her for taking a weapon when he was in the process of cinching a sword belt around his waist? Ravyn's new quiver was banded with rusty copper and held fourteen sleek arrows. Much to her delight, the bow was exactly the right size for her. She liked the sensation of the ash wood beneath her fingers. Even though she had only fired an arrow three times in her life, she already felt as if that bow and quiver had always been on her back.

Only Naima had refused to take a weapon, even a dagger. But she did seem to have an easier time scrambling over the rocks since she was unencumbered by the heavy steel or wood that her companions carried. Ravyn couldn't imagine Naima ever needing a weapon; trouble seemed to resolve itself when she was involved.

The path steepened suddenly, winding through a narrow gap in the rock and out of sight.

"Rowe, wait," Naima said uncertainly.

Rowe stopped and looked at her.

"I can't hear anything," she snapped.

"Well, neither can I…" Rowe said, raising an eyebrow.

But it was becoming increasingly clear that Naima had not been addressing anyone visible. She looked to her left as a light breeze fluttered from that direction. Ravyn was standing there, but Naima's hazel eyes were focused on the air in front of her. The notion that one or more of the fey, if the fey were real, was right in front of her sent a chill down Ravyn's back. She focused, but couldn't see anything, neither shimmer nor shadow.

She watched with silent wonder as Naima conferred quietly with the breeze that Ravyn couldn't feel because it originated in the air right in front of her.

"But is it the dragon?" Naima said with exceeding patience as the wind whipped her hair. "Then why---Yes, I understand that, but—so it is…but not---fine. Fine." She nodded decisively.

"Well?" Drake asked, after a moment's pause. He looked neither skeptical nor accepting. The breeze had died down.

"There is a dragon near the peak," Naima said cheerfully. "And Rowe, darling, you'll want to move."

Rowe's eyebrow was still cocked.

"May I ask why?"

"Move now, please," Naima said, a bit more urgency in her tone.

Rowe stepped to the side, away from the gap that the path led into. Half a breath later, in a bundle of snarl and fur, a mountain lion tore through the gap and skidded to a stop on the rocky ground. Everyone dove to the sides of the trail, where a few scraggly trees and boulders provided some stability against the loose gravel, but no suitable escape route from the growling beast.

Rowe and Ravyn were to the cougar's right and Drake and Naima on the left.

"Don't move," Naima breathed carefully over the massive cat's snarls. "He's just frightened. We've invaded his home."

Usually, Ravyn accepted Naima's words as fact. But the cougar didn't look scared. It looked hungry. And if it lived on the same mountain as a dragon, surely food was scarce. Its bony sides and scraggly fur made Ravyn suspect that it hadn't eaten in a very long time. Drake voiced her fears.

"It's on the hunt" he said softly, barely louder than a whisper.

As the cougar began to pace in a circle, eyeing them one by one, even Naima didn't disagree. It stopped suddenly, facing the right of the trail. Facing Drake.

Ravyn wasn't sure how it happened, but somehow her bow found her hands and an arrow found the bowstring. In her muscles, she could feel the tautness of the string. By her ear, she could feel the tickling of the feathers. In her chest, she could feel her heart pounding like a war drum.

Drake's jaw was tight and his hand was shaking on the hilt of his sword, which he couldn't risk drawing. The cougar was fast enough to rip out his throat before the steel even left the sheath. Ravyn could barely detect the slight movement of his chest with each shallow breath. She knew his heart was probably drumming in rhythm with hers as he looked the hungry cougar in the eye.

But she couldn't make the shot. Her head flurried with indecision. She couldn't afford to miss, and she couldn't afford to only wound the beast. If she made it angry, it would pounce without hesitation. Would an arrow to its head pierce the skull? What if she hit the back of its neck?

"Right below its shoulder blade." Rowe's voice in her ear almost made her release the arrow in surprise. He had eased behind her. "Can you see it?" His voice was barely louder than a breath.

Ravyn saw it. The pointed angle of the animal's shoulder shifted as it took a menacing step forward. Any second now and it would pounce. She had to make the shot. Her breathing quickened and she blinked a bead of sweat from her eye. This was foolish. She had only fired an arrow three times in her whole life! And now she had to make the shot that would save or doom her brother. A part of her wanted to give the bow to Rowe, but she knew there was no time for that.

So instead of thinking about it further, she released the arrow.

The cougar howled at the sudden pain and threw itself forward with the momentum of agonized rage. But the pounce was clumsy and slow. Drake dove to the left, hitting Naima hard, and they both rolled several yards down the rocky trail, but out of immediate danger.

Ravyn pulled out another arrow, not daring to think, just react. Her first arrow had lodged itself several inches to the right of the animal's shoulder, not the mark she had been aiming for. The cougar had found its footing and was turning on her and Rowe with vengeful fury.

She hesitated for a split second, deciding on a mark. The bowstring slid through her fingers with a resounding _twang _and the cougar fell, unable to overcome the arrow lodged squarely in its chest.

"Nice shot," Rowe said finally, after all was silent for almost a minute.

Ravyn lowered the bow. Her hands were shaking furiously.

On the other side of the path, Drake pulled himself painfully off Naima.

"Sorry," he muttered weakly. "Are you alright?"

"Never better, darling," she said brightly, accepting his hand to stand up. "It looks like your arm took the brunt of the landing."

Drake looked at his left arm. From shoulder to wrist, his sleeve was shredded and the scrapes were starting to bleed.

"I'll be alright," he said slowly, still a bit dazed.

Ravyn dropped her bow and ran to him.

"I'm so sorry!" she cried anxiously. "I hesitated and the cougar was moving and Rowe told me where to aim, but I missed and--" She decided to stop and throw her arms around her brother instead. "You could have died."

She suddenly knew why Drake was so overprotective all the time. Those few seconds when the thought that her brother might die had settled in her gut were unbearable. Did her love for danger make him feel like that all the time?

"I'm fine," Drake said softly, returning the embrace tightly. He paused for a moment. "You're a pretty good shot with that bow."

Ravyn stepped back and looked at him, surprised that he was encouraging a potentially dangerous activity such as archery. He smiled at her. Ravyn smiled back, and suddenly she thought that even if they never found Freda or the dragon, the day was not wasted.

"The sun is setting," Naima said at length. "We shouldn't climb any further up the moment tonight."

"Well we can't stay here," Rowe said. "Every scavenger on the mountain will be coming for the free meal."

"We can't backtrack," Ravyn protested, not pleased with the idea of going backwards, only to retrace their steps in the morning. She was tired enough already.

"Then we'll go up," Drake said definitively. "Until we find a decent place to stay the night."

"This little endeavor was only supposed to take a day," Rowe pointed out. Ravyn suspected he was just trying to be contrary.

"Well," Drake said slowly, a half-smile finding his lips. "You're more than welcome to go back down to the village and drink tea with Leota and Kat."

"Thanks, I think I'll stay," Rowe said, glancing once down the steep and winding trail they had traveled. "I'd hate to deprive you all of my shining intelligence and wit." He winked at Ravyn and jumped over the dead carcass to resume the trail up the mountain, followed immediately by his companions.

And near the peak, an ancient dragon breathed in the sunset and watched the travelers with catlike eyes. She could hear their conversations, the crunching of their feet on stone, their ragged, tired breaths. She could feel their heartbeats, quickened with exhaustion. And she could sense the blood in their veins, some of it was royal blood. The dragon watched for a few seconds longer, and then retreated back into her lair with something like a smile on her scaly lips. It would take another day for them to reach the peak, not because it was far, bur because the path became increasingly treacherous. But they would make it, she had no doubt—and she would be ready.

* * *

(A/N: No dragon for you, other than that little taste. I enjoy making you wait. And no Saria or Alden this chapter either. Don't worry, they won't be on the backburner for long. Please vote in my poll, and read Slipshod's new story! It's dedicated to me! -giddiness- Ahem. Right, on a more professional note, I'm undertaking a new project that may or may not be seen through to completion. As a writer, I try to continually evaluate my weaknesses, and I've realized that even though I write Fanfiction, I don't really. Pretty much all of my plots are original, and all of my characters are as well. This is because I'm terrible at writing someone else's characters, which on the whole isn't so bad I suppose, but I think it would be a useful skill to be able to capture someone I didn't create, should I ever decide to write non-fiction or actual fanfiction. The point of this long rant being--I want to write a short story with you, my lovely reviewers, as my characters. Not all of you, though that would be interesting. Just the first four who PM me answering the following questions: 

Name: (It doesn't have to be your real name, but it does need to be an actual name that someone might have. IluvElvis would not be acceptable, sorry. Or Shadowfighter or anything to that effect. And I'd appreciate you throwing in a middle and last name as well. Once again, doesn't need to be your real name. And I'd prefer you not use your real last name in any case.)

What you think about your name:

Hair/eyes/height/weight/race/etc.:

Brief history:

A few words that capture your personality AS OTHERS WOULD SEE IT:

Weaknesses:

Strengths:

Fears:

Hobbies:

You get the gist--anything and everything you'd want me to know. And I don't care if every single bit of it is made up. I just want to practice writing characters that aren't my own creation, to see where they take me. The more you tell me, the less I have to make up and risk ruining your lovely reputation. And I don't know the setting yet, I was going to see where the characters take me. If no one responds to this, I'll assume it was a terrible idea and we'll never worry about it again. Cheers.


	26. Trust

_**Important note: Rowe's eyes are blue, not green. I think they were referred to as green last chapter. This might not be important, but as Kiwi's Venerated Ancestor so deftly pointed out--it's difficult to find contact lenses in the desert. His eyes started out this story as blue, so they must remain as such. I apologize for the discrepancy.  
**_

"_The problem with Trust is that humans, though born with an innate sense of It, lose Its potency as life progresses. We never lose the capacity for Trust though, and that is surely a gift of divine providence." _

_ --Avalyn, noted Tevouin philosopher  
_

By sunset on the second day of their journey up the mountain, Ravyn's spirits had melted into a puddle of exhaustion and general despondence. Her body's only hydration was water from the mountain streams, which had a distinct flavor of fish. The only food in her stomach was last night's dinner, which consisted of some dry bread Leota had given them and meat from the cougar she had killed. Rowe had skinned and cleaned the carcass expertly, trying not to laugh at Ravyn's disgusted expression as he did so. Drake and Naima had been fortunate enough to be absent, gathering firewood, during that ordeal.

Despite Rowe's assurance that it tasted like venison, it had taken Ravyn the better part of an hour to try a piece of the greasy, fire-roasted lump of meat. It tasted nothing like venison. In fact, it tasted exactly how she imagined a dead cougar might taste—disgusting. She made sure to mention that to her companions.

Naima had merely giggled around a mouthful. Drake just rolled his eyes and took another bite, pointing out that it was better than starving to death—an experience that no one present was a stranger to. Ravyn recalled their death march through the desert and decided that it wouldn't hurt to be grateful for the food. She ate it, but it was still disgusting, and she was certainly not disappointed when Rowe didn't roast more for breakfast.

But it wasn't so much the lack of a decent meal that had damaged her spirits as it was the mountain that rose above them, constantly taunting them with its steep precipices, crumbling paths, and slippery slopes. Since they had set out that morning, the trail had become increasingly treacherous.

Ravyn's knees felt like jelly and her very bones were burning with fatigue. She knew everyone felt the same, judging from facial expressions and tired groans as they struggled forward. More than once, someone would fall behind and everyone would stand silently in the middle of the narrow path, panting and wincing and waiting to continue the arduous journey, every one of them being too stubborn to give in first. Conversation had ceased a little before noon.

When Rowe finally stopped at a somewhat flat portion of the path and declared it suitable for camp, Ravyn thought her heart would explode from relief. She had been at her breaking point since mid-afternoon, but thought of being the one holding everyone back kept her silent.

Everyone collapsed on the ground, catching their breath and willing their muscles to stop aching. A fire could wait until some of the fatigue had lifted. Ravyn's face was flushed with heat despite the cool temperature. Her throat felt blistered and raw from breathing in the chilled mountain air all day. All in all, she was quite miserable. And she had the creeping feeling that if the dragon decided to waltz down the mountain and have them for dinner, no one would have enough energy to protest.

"Happy birthday, Rae," Drake said at length, still breathing heavily.

Ravyn blinked. Was it truly her birthday? She had lost count of the days a long time ago. Even if she hadn't, she doubted she would have remembered amidst all the upheaval. But Drake had never forgotten her birthday, not once in her entire life.

"How exciting," Naima said, not sounding as cheerful as she usually did, due to her exhaustion.

"Congratulations on living to see sixteen years," Rowe mumbled, sounding half-asleep. He was lying on his back, chin tilted toward the sky—the position he had fallen into only seconds after announcing the spot suitable for camp.

"I'm seventeen," Ravyn corrected pointedly.

Rowe gave something that resembled a shrug, not moving from his somewhat comfortable position.

"Hope you aren't too disappointed that you didn't get the pony you wanted," Drake said with a smile.

"I wanted a pony when I was seven!" Ravyn said. "And you never talked Father into getting me one, like you promised." She fell silent then, remembering for the first time in weeks that her father was dead—murdered, to be precise. He had been murdered by rebels and then his most trusted friend had tried to kill her and Drake. Now they were swept up in the affairs of the Tevouin, climbing to a mountain peak where a dragon was waiting. The thoughts sort of threw a damper on any forthcoming birthday festivities.

"My, how things have changed," Naima said with a sly smile, as if she had been reading Ravyn's thoughts. "Strange how the course of a month can change the course of a life so dramatically."

Rowe snorted, as close as he could come in his current state of exhaustion to laughing at her philosophic tendencies. But Ravyn nodded slowly. Her life really had changed; whether for better or worse was yet to be determined, but it had changed. In a little less than a month, she had crossed Asher, the Great Desert, and then returned to Silvern. She had seen death in the face several times, and lived to tell the tale. And for the first time, she was letting herself realistically imagine a life of perfect freedom, where she could make her own decisions, however unpractical, and choose her own course.

She was seventeen years old. And if she had still been a princess, she would no doubt be engaged by now, probably to some smelly old nobleman. Her father's death had been a disaster, Drake being overthrown was a tragedy, but something good could come out of it, right? She glanced at Rowe's relaxed form, and for the first time she stopped thinking about what life would be like when Drake figured out a way to reclaim Silvern's throne, and she started considering what life could be like if he never did. What if there was love to be found? True happiness? Maybe even a marriage of her choosing…

"At any rate, I'm afraid we'll have to substitute bread for the usual six-layer cake," Drake said wryly, blithely unaware that his sister was entertaining such rebellious thoughts.

Ravyn snapped out of her reverie and forced a laugh. She suddenly felt silly for letting her thoughts carry her away to such heights when there were more pressing matters at hand, like surviving another day. She glanced briefly up the path, toward the mountain's summit, and forced her thoughts to bend in the direction of tomorrow and what lay in store. But that didn't last for long, and she fell asleep before the fire was even started, entertaining peaceful dreams of freedom, archery, and laughing blue eyes.

* * *

"I hope they didn't die," Kat muttered dejectedly, kicking absently at the leg of the table as Leota poured some tea.

"That's a horrid thing to think about. And sit up straight, dear."

Kat rolled her eyes and glanced at Leota, who smiled at her in a motherly way. Kat didn't budge. Leota frowned slightly and sat down across the table to sip her own tea.

"Those mountains are deadly," Kat continued. "I can't believe your husband is asinine enough to make them go. The last thing this rutting place needs is Tevouin blood on its hands." She glanced at the older woman to see if any of her offhanded threats were making an impact. She knew she was supposed to be civil. Rowe had even pulled her aside before leaving and warned her to not so much as glare at a puppy. But Kat wasn't one for obeying.

"Why don't we talk about something else," Leota said lightly. "Tell me about your family."

"Alright," Kat replied with false enthusiasm. "My mother killed herself when I was three. When I was seven, my father got drunk one night and tried to kill me with a kitchen knife. My brother Owen defended me, almost lost his hand, and was forced to run dear papa through with a fire poker. Then we ran to the Tevouin camp, where we lived in perfect bliss until Owen went off to battle and deserted his comrades who subsequently died. I haven't seen him since and now my family name is the quiet scorn of the whole camp. Anything else you'd like to know?" She said it all with the air of perfect docility and temperance, looking Leota in the eye so she could watch the woman squirm in discomfort. She wasn't sure why she disliked Leota, probably just because Kat didn't particularly like anyone at the moment. Her occasional bitter moods were infamous.

"That's dreadful," Leota said somberly, looking genuinely sad. Kat looked away; she hadn't told the tale to exact pity. She just wanted the woman to quit asking silly questions. "We could talk about it if you'd like," Leota continued. "I know what it feels like to--"

"What a marvelous idea," Kat cut in acridly with the utmost sarcasm. "We can hold hands and spill our bloody feelings all over the table and then cry healing tears to wash it all clean. Blessed knows, that will make all the world's misery disappear."

Leota's features curved into a definite frown and Kat looked back down at her tea, clamping her jaw shut. She wasn't sure why she felt the need to be so rude all of a sudden. Maybe because she had never spoken her past aloud in such a candid manner, and it suddenly struck her how terrible it really was. That soured her mood considerably.

"You're very bitter," Leota observed quietly.

"Well, there's plenty to be bitter about in my life," Kat shot back.

"And nothing to be grateful for? The princess told me how your friend rode back into the sandstorm to save you. If I had friends like that--"

"And you don't? Your husband is Cullum's leader. You have a whole village behind you, for Blessed's sake. Every single one of them probably grovels at your feet."

Leota's expression grew tight-lipped. For several seconds she was quiet.

"My daughter went missing a month and a half ago," she said finally in a low, resigned tone. "Do you want to know how many of the young and brave villagers offered to go look for her in the mountains?"

Kat bit her lip, guessing the sorry answer. Leota confirmed it, sounding slightly bitter herself.

"Not a one. My husband is getting old—he has a bad back. There's no way he could make the trip. We begged, we demanded, we bribed—not one of the villagers stood to task." She looked at Kat with a new depth in her eyes.

"As far as I can see, you're just an impetuous child with a sorry attitude. But still I envy you. You have comrades that stand behind you and go the distance, even for people they don't know—even for a village that might have resorted to disreputable means in order to get help." Leota sighed deeply, and took another sip of her tea. "Perhaps you should recount your blessings, dear."

After a long pause, Kat still didn't know what to say. Instead, she took another sip of tea and thought about it.

* * *

Ravyn awoke to someone shaking her shoulder softly.

She groaned lightly and rolled over, realizing blearily that someone had been kind enough to put a blanket over her and a pack under her head for a makeshift pillow. Without opening her eyes, she winced at the stabs of pain that the night on the hard earth had left her with. At least she could feel her legs; that was an improvement from the day prior.

The shaking continued.

"Come on, princess. Wake up." It was Rowe. He was the only person who persisted in calling her 'princess,' despite her repeated warnings to stop.

Her eyes flew open with annoyance and she started to threaten him once more, but he pressed his hand over her mouth.

"Shhh..." he breathed softly, in response to her quizzical and aggravated expression. "Don't wake the others. There's something you need to see."

Painfully, Ravyn climbed to her feet. The air was chilly and moist with the pale darkness before dawn. She rubbed her arms to warm herself and followed Rowe as he ventured off the beaten path. The brisk pace helped to shake some of the stiffness from her joints and muscles.

"Where are we going?" she asked with a yawn, when they were far enough away from the camp that he wouldn't clamp his hand over her mouth again.

"I found you a birthday present."

She could practically hear the smile in his voice and only hoped that he wasn't leading her to a dead animal. He might find that amusing.

"It couldn't wait until actual morning?" she demanded.

"No. Don't worry, you'll like it. I promise."

She was inclined to believe the sincerity in his tone, and didn't offer any more objections as he led her through a winding crevice in the mountain. She was just about to ask if he even knew where he was going when he stopped suddenly and turned around.

"You have to close your eyes the rest of the way."

"Are you serious?"

"Well, I'm not laughing."

"Well, you are mad. I'm not going anywhere on this mountain with my eyes closed."

"You don't trust me?"

"Of course I trust you. That doesn't mean I'm going to close my eyes."

"Do you want your present or not?"

Ravyn sighed, but her curiosity had already won. Besides, there was something exciting about this early morning hike, and about the way his hand rested casually on her arm, pleading and reassuring at the same time.

"You won't lead me off a cliff, will you?" she demanded, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Trust me, if I wanted to kill you, there would be easier ways." He nudged her forward.

"I'd be interested to know what ways you've thought about killing me."

"I'm sure you would. But I'd be interested to know if you have the capacity to just be quiet and enjoy the morning air."

Ravyn took her cue and fell silent with minimal indignation. With her eyes closed, the world around her seemed to jump at her other senses with sharp ferocity. There was the rough coolness under her fingertips as she let her hand drag along the rock wall to her left. The cold ground beneath her seemed to crack with the heat of their footsteps and the chilly air shriveled away with their breaths. She could hear a distant owl calling mournfully into the dying night and some sort of small animal scurrying across the rocks above them. Her own heartbeat seemed the loudest noise in the mountain air.

It was the first time she had ever encountered Silvern's rugged beauty in such close quarters. She had always rode horses and climbed trees and swam in lakes, but strictly for fun, never to simply experience the sensation of the bark under her hands or the water in her hair. There was something more real about this blind walk before dawn than she had ever felt before. Suddenly, Rowe stopped her.

"Still trust me?" He had stepped behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

She only hesitated for a split second.

"Yes."

"You have to step down."

Such an insignificant request was magnified a hundred times by the fact that her eyes were closed. There was something insurmountable about the thought of stepping down blindly on a mountain path, with no reassurance that the next solid ground was any less than a hundred feet away.

"Why can't you go first?" she asked nervously.

"So you don't trust me," he declared with an air of accusation.

"I do!" she insisted. "But why can't I open my eyes?"

"It has to be surprise!"

"Do you count falling to my death as a surprise?" she retorted sarcastically.

"It's three feet. I promise."

Ravyn grudgingly slid her right foot forward until it left solid ground. She let it hover for several seconds in hesitation. Suddenly the blackness behind her eyelids was suffocating. This was stupid. Why didn't she just open her eyes?

Rowe leaned forward and his near proximity sent a shiver down Ravyn's back. She hoped he didn't notice.

"Come on, princess," he said softly, his breath warm in her ear. "Take a chance."

She bit her lip and let her weight fall to her right foot. There was a second of utter uncertainty, when her mind collapsed upon itself in blind alarm. She did trust Rowe, but human nature in general doesn't take kindly to stepping blindly. Despite all her logic, she was in a state of pure, mute panic.

Then there was hard rock under her foot, and all her fears immediately seemed absurd.

"I told you," Rowe said, as she stepped the rest of the way down. She knew he was rolling his eyes.

"We're going to be missed if we stay out here much longer," Ravyn said, quickly changing the subject. She could only imagine Drake's reaction if he woke to find her and Rowe missing.

"We're almost there. I'm getting the feeling you don't even want your present."

"Don't get me wrong. My heart is all aflutter," she replied dryly. He chuckled.

A few moments later, he stopped her again.

"Alright, you need to stay perfectly still."

"Can I open my eyes?"

"Wait."

She waited. At least a minute passed. She could hear bird calls filling the air and knew the mountain was slowly waking up. The cool air smelled of dew and pine. Suddenly Rowe's hands were resting on her hips. She didn't say anything. Their stance felt very natural—her back pressed lightly against his chest, his chin beside her ear. She liked the ease with which she fit between his shoulders.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Happy birthday."

She opened her eyes.

In all her life, sunrise had never looked so glorious. Pink and violet raced across the vast, pale sky like brush strokes on a canvas. Silvern's harshly beautiful countryside stretched before her like a blanket of a thousand miles and she felt as if she were on top of the world.

The spell remained unbroken until she looked down. A sheer drop of at least a thousand feet was inches from her toes. They ledge they were standing on jutted out from the mountain and was only a few feet wide. It would be very easy to fall to one's death with just the slightest loss of balance.

Startled, she pushed backwards and probably would have tumbled off the ledge if Rowe's hands hadn't been on her hips to quickly steady her.

"Calm down," he said, sounding amused. "It's quite safe."

"You could have warned me," she snapped, breathless as the panic subsided. She wasn't afraid of heights, but even the bravest of souls would be daunted by their current position.

"I said not to move."

"That hardly expresses the gravity of it, don't you think?" she said crossly, annoyed that he had seen her frightened. She didn't want him to know that most situations he found exhilarating, she found terrifying.

Rowe just chuckled again.

"Well, I think you ruined the effect somewhat, but do you like your present?"

Ravyn let the breathtaking view capture her attention once more, and for a full minute she basked in the warm sunlight and undefiled beauty of her homeland. Every second further convinced her that this was one of the best moments of her life.

"It's perfect," she said finally.

"I know it's no pony…" Rowe said slyly.

"I haven't wanted a pony since I was seven. Now can you be quiet and let me enjoy my birthday present?"

"Fine," he said with mock indignation and fell silent.

They stood still for another few minutes as the sun spilled increasing radiance across the mountain. When one of them finally moved again, it was quick, decisive, and without warning—but that was Rowe's nature. He pulled Ravyn around to face him and pressed his lips against hers with such force and conviction that had his hands not moved to support her back, she would have tumbled right off the ledge.

Ravyn was too stunned to move for a moment, but as soon as her head caught up with her, she returned the kiss with equal passion. It felt so natural, like his hands on her hips and his voice in her ear.

An eternity passed in that moment, but only for the two of them, because the sun was still rising and the air was still damp with morning when they were interrupted by a long howl from above them. It could have easily been a lament or a battle cry, and had the resonance of boulders crashing into the sea.

Rowe and Ravyn looked up in time to see a shadow pass overhead and disappear between two massive boulders only a few hundred yards up the mountain. Ravyn's voice felt dry in her throat.

"Was that…"

"The dragon." Rowe grabbed her hand and pulled her back the way they came with daring speed. Ravyn barely felt the ground beneath her feet as they raced back down to the camp. Her head had been foggy for a few brief seconds after the kiss, but the knowledge that they were closer to the dragon's lair than anyone realized straightened her priorities immediately. There would be time to sort through her emotions later; right now they had to deal with a dragon.

* * *

(Dear Slipshod: The cougar roasting is dedicated to you.)


	27. Secrets

_Tell me sooth, _

_Friend, can you see_

_The shadow on my features,_

_The panic as I breathe?_

_For these betray my secrets--_

_Dark and deep, they are,_

_So heavy that I wear them_

_Plainly as a scar. _

_--The poet Ettne_

When Naima first suggested that someone try talking to the dragon, no one took her seriously.

"We'll try to lure it out of its cave," Rowe said, ignoring Naima and cinching his sword belt around his waist. "If the girl is alive, she'll be in there." He didn't sound optimistic.

"Dragons are crafty," Naima cut in. "You can't trick them into anything. Someone has to reason with it."

"Wait, are you serious?" Drake asked, raising an eyebrow. "You think we should talk to it?"

"Well, why not?" Naima demanded. "They're intelligent creatures, just like us. We can't take it by force and it's too smart to be tricked. What choice do we have?"

"Why would a dragon listen to anything we have to say?" Ravyn asked.

"It won't," Rowe answered pointedly. "If it's hungry, it will eat us. If it's bored, it will play with us for a while, and then eat us."

Everyone looked expectantly at Naima, who didn't look daunted. She was actually smiling.

"Rowe is right," she said. "Dragons are seclusive creatures and would rarely stoop to talk to mere humans. But what about someone who isn't merely human? A prince, perhaps?"

Everyone looked at Drake, who looked pained.

"There's no way I'm going to try to negotiate with a dragon," he exclaimed.

"Why not? Negotiating is your favorite pastime," Rowe pointed out with a smirk.

Ravyn gave Rowe a small shove to silence him and looked worriedly at Naima.

"You can't be serious! He'll be killed."

"This is our best chance," Naima insisted. "The dragon will think twice about eating someone with royal blood."

"I don't want to be eaten—on a first or second thought!" Drake inserted.

"We're wasting time," Naima said. "I thought we were here to find Freda."

"We are," Drake replied, "But--"

"But nothing. Do you trust me or not?"

Drake hesitated.

"Fine," he said finally. "We'll do it your way."

"Drake!" Ravyn cried. "You can't--"

But Drake waved his hand to silence her, and the matter was settled. The former prince of Silvern and the dragon of the mountaintop would be having a chat.

* * *

As he pulled himself onto the ledge, Drake silently wondered when exactly he had lost his mind. Weeks, maybe even days, ago he would have never even considered such insanity. Yet now he was standing outside a dragon's lair, about to attempt negotiations with a carnivorous, fire-breathing creature. All the books and tutors in the world couldn't have prepared him for this.

The rock plateau he was standing on was bigger than he expected. The stone floor was smooth and worn and the cold breeze was blocked by the massive boulders on all sides. It was a surprisingly calm and warm nook on such a sharp, unforgiving mountain. There weren't any bones lying around, which eased Drake considerably. The dark cave mouth remained foreboding though; it was little more than a stone's throw away.

Drake swallowed hard, suddenly struck with the full incomprehensible idiocy of his current position. He was of royal blood. He was supposed to be ruling a country right now, not negotiating with a dragon on this foolhardy quest to save a girl who was already dead. She was already dead, wasn't she? His logic screamed yes. Dragons don't kidnap people; they eat people!

Then why was he here?

"Why are you here?" The voice emanating from the darkness of the cave was solid but slippery, like stones in a rushing creek. It came so suddenly, and so much like an echo of his private thoughts, that Drake took a shocked step backwards. That was a mistake. "Don't show any weakness," Naima had warned. "Stand firm." Too late for that now.

The mountain air shivered with a sound like iron scraping stone. Drake had to hold his breath to keep from gasping as the massive inhabitant of the mountaintop came into the fresh air. Sunlight rippled across thousands of scales that shone like deep violet mirrors. The dragon's face was long and sharp, with reptilian features and catlike eyes. Its body, though substantial, was not bulky or ungainly, but streamlined and graceful. Membranous wings were tucked neatly to its sides and its tail hovered like a feline's, tapering to an armored point that looked deadly as a scorpion's stinger.

Drake still held his breath, trying to decide whether the dagger-sharp talons or the poised tail presented more of an immediate threat.

"Are you mute, human?" asked the dragon, its voice cascading through the air like a waterfall of heat. Drake could almost feel the fire from the beast's throat, but he steeled himself.

"I bring much honor from the court of Silvern," he said, breathless, but still somewhat assertive.

"How much honor is there in a fallen kingdom?" the dragon quipped and Drake could have sworn the scaly lips curved into a smile. The creature moved nearer to him with such silent grace that Drake wondered if the dragon was more feline than reptile. He also noticed the lilt of the powerful voice and the strange delicacy in the facial features and began to suspect that this particular dragon was female.

"Silvern may be weak," he defended with conviction, "But it has not fallen."

The dragon paused for a moment, and then nodded sagely as if to concede the point. She began pacing slowly.

"Tell me why you are here, boy, and why I should not simply roast you where you stand—royal or not."

Drake's breath caught in his throat, but he forced out words, hoping that blunt confidence in this situation would be rewarded.

"Let's stop pretending you are a mindless, carnivorous savage," he said dryly. "We're both intelligent creatures, so perhaps we can proceed in that fashion." It had occurred to him that if this dragon was intelligent, she would also have some amount of pride that could be manipulated. Or she might just eat him.

The dragon stopped pacing with mild shock and stared at him with golden eyes. A sound that resembled raindrops resonating on a tin roof burst from her throat. It took Drake several seconds to realize she was laughing. He blinked.

"Well said, boy," she acknowledged. "You've intrigued me—no easy task. Continue."

He hadn't really expected to get this far. It took him a few moments to find his voice.

"Do you have a name?"

The dragon's expression darkened.

"A name?" she mocked derisively. "As if the human tongue could capture me in a word. No, dragons do not have names. But you may call me Evren. It is from the ancient tongue."

Drake nodded.

"Evren," he repeated, letting the word roll off his tongue. It tasted of water, fire, and sacred secrets.

"You did not come here to learn my name," Evren said, prompting him to continue.

"Freda, from the village—did you take her?" Not quite eloquent, but Drake was desperate to know and more than ready to leave this place.

"What a foolish question. Dragons don't kidnap humans," she said candidly and lowered her neck to meet his gaze levelly. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Drake didn't answer.

"You know the foolishness of your quest, and yet you stand before me. Tell me, Drake of Silvern, what is your true quest?"

She had caught him off guard.

Drake's mind fumbled uselessly for an answer. Of course he had come for Freda—but no, that wasn't entirely true, especially since she was dead. It was Orson and Leota's desperation that had driven this fool's journey, or maybe it was what their desperation represented.

He was the rightful king of Silvern. His whole life had been laid before him with only one purpose: to protect Silvern. Seeing Orson's angry desperation and Leota's well-hidden sorrow had cast that purpose into sharp relief. Silvern was its people. Hadn't his father always said that?

Drake had come to this mountaintop as a last attempt at protecting Silvern's people. His people. And for the first time in his life he refused to give up hope in spite of all logic. Failure meant something more to him than disappointing Freda's mother and father.

"So it is a quest for meaning…" Evren said, with a glint in her eye and smile.

Drake had a sickening notion that maybe his thoughts weren't quite sacred around this creature.

"I'm glad you came, little prince," Evren continued. "But now I wish to speak with your companions."

"They aren't here," Drake said, taking a casual step away from the hot breath.

"But they'll come, won't they," she rasped in a whisper. It wasn't a question. Her grin was atrocious—serpentine wiles and feline pride, all rolled into a blistering smirk. Drake didn't have time to blink before her long, deadly tail swung forward.

He expected the dagger tip to lance through his heart, but quickly realized that wasn't the dragon's intention at all. She had wrapped her tail once around his legs and then brought the point back up to his face. Drake's eyes crossed at the sharp violet tip only an inch from his nose. It wouldn't take more than a sneeze on her part and Evren could easily cleave his brain in two.

"I think I'll kill you now," she announced with sensationalism and a very humanlike wink. Drake realized her plan, but before he could speak a warning, Ravyn was sprinting out from behind one of the boulders.

"No! Please!" she cried.

Rowe was right on her heels. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back a step.

"Are you crazy?" He demanded of her. "You--" He stopped and blinked at the dragon's face, which was suddenly a foot from his own. "Uhh…hello."

Evren laughed thunderously from her belly.

"I do love company," she said gaily, releasing Drake and swinging her tail around to thump both Rowe and Ravyn squarely on the back. They both lurched forward several feet. Then, as if realizing her own break in character, the dragon sobered immediately.

"Quite a foolish move, little princess," she chided.

Ravyn's eyes were glued to the razor-sharp tail wagging in her face like a scolding finger, and she remained silent.

"Leave her out of this," Drake ordered crossly, stepping protectively between his sister and the potentially fatal tail.

"Out of what?" Evren asked impishly. "I thought we were just having an intelligent conversation."

"Is Freda here or not?" Rowe demanded impatiently, keeping his hold on Ravyn's arm as if expecting to drag her off the mountain on a moment's notice.

"Where is the fourth?" Evren asked suspiciously, ignoring Rowe completely.

Drake cast an exasperated glance heavenward as a reply, because he knew what was coming next.

"Right here, darling!" Naima skipped into view and joined the group, entirely too cheerful and by all appearances oblivious to any present danger. That actually calmed Drake somewhat. If Naima didn't sense any forthcoming trouble, then perhaps there wasn't any.

"A truth-seer," the dragon said with a hint of approval as her keen gaze swept over the Tevouin woman. "You are welcome here."

Naima bowed her head slightly in gratitude, but remained respectfully silent as if she knew Evren had more to say.

"A very motley crew," Evren continued with a hint of darkness in her tone. "Many differences. Many secrets…" She looked at Rowe for the first time, eyes piercing. Rowe didn't flinch and Evren turned away.

"Yes, I'm glad you all came to me," she finished softly.

"We're here for Freda," Drake reminded politely.

"Then your journey is in vain," the dragon spat with a lick of fire and whirled on them suddenly. Everyone, even Naima, jumped back a step.

Drake swallowed hard and tried to remain level-headed as Evren glared angrily with a heat in her eyes that might soon bellow from her mouth. Her temper seemed to waver constantly, from coy to jubilant to fierce. It was no secret that dragons were volatile creatures. The pressing question was: would her temper shift to a milder degree before she had killed them all?

"Evren, what's wrong?" A small voice echoed stridently across the stone and all eyes flew to the cave mouth. A girl of about eleven years stood at the entrance, eyes narrowed in suspicion at the visitors. Her dark hair was tangled and matted, and her simple dress was dirty and frayed.

"Freda?" Ravyn asked, hope soaring within her.

The girl ignored her and walked to Evren's side.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded imperiously of the new arrivals. One of her small hands rested protectively on Evren's shimmering scales and the other was clenched into a tight fist.

"Peace, child," Evren said ruefully. "They have come to rescue you." There was a smile in her tone.

"Well, I'm not coming with you! Just leave!" Freda cried, shrilly enough to make everyone wince.

"We're going to take you home," Drake said slowly, unwilling to believe that Freda honestly wanted to remain here.

"Your parents are worried sick," added Naima.

"Then go back and tell them I'm fine," Freda huffed, stomping her foot petulantly. "I'm staying with Evren."

"I can't believe this," Rowe muttered, rubbing his temples. "You ran away didn't you?"

Freda pressed her lips together firmly, but her guilty expression spoke volumes.

"Do you have any idea of the trouble you've caused?" Rowe demanded.

"Everyone thought you were kidnapped by a dragon!" Ravyn interjected.

"That's silly," Freda chirped. "Dragons don't kidnap people."

"So we've heard," Rowe snapped irritably. "Now quit being idiotic. You're coming with us."

Freda shook her head fiercely and took a few steps back in retreat. Evren responded by swinging her tail around protectively to guard the girl from approach. Her wings expanded with a loud, intimidating snap, shielding Freda from view.

"If she wishes to stay, she will stay," the dragon hissed, sweeping her formidable gaze across the travelers. There was fire in her tone, a challenge to anyone who wished to object.

Rowe liked challenges.

"Look," he said coolly to Evren, stepping forward and showing no visible concern for any forthcoming flames. "I honestly don't care if the kid likes it here enough to turn her back on her family. If these were any other circumstances, I'd pat her on the shoulder and gladly tell her pompous idiot of a father the sad news. But as it stands, someone of my family is being held hostage in that village and I'm not inclined to turn my back on him. So pardon my reckless abandon and lack of negotiating skills, but the girl is coming with us, even if I have to swing my sword at you until we're both dead."

There was a heavy, painful silence. The dragon and the Tevouin captain stood eye-to-eye in a battle of wills and neither seemed prepared to back down. Almost a minute passed.

Finally, Evren sighed. It was a hot, sorrowful release of air and her wings drooped.

"Freda," she began softly, sliding her tail away.

"No, Evren, please!" the girl begged, tears building in her eyes. "I like it here. I like you. It's so boring in Cullum. I don't want to go back!"

A ghost of a smile found Evren's scaly lips and there was a glisten of tears in her own eyes.

"You're a sweet girl, Freda, and one day you will come back to me. But you must be responsible now. You must grow up with your own kind."

Just like that, the matter was settled. Freda sobbed openly, but let Naima and Ravyn lead her gently away. Evren nodded reassuringly to Drake, who looked troubled.

"It is the best thing for her," she said, sounding slightly forlorn. "You've done your duty—what is best for your people. That is all anyone can ask of you, little prince."

Drake considered her words. Finally, he nodded a grateful farewell and headed after Naima and his sister. Rowe started to follow, but Evren swung her tail around rapidly to block his path.

"You owe me your gratitude, boy," she said lightly.

"You have it," Rowe answered easily. "I always appreciate not being burned to a crisp."

"That's not what I'm referring to." She leaned down so her face was inches from his. "Dragons sense many things, things that even the truth-seer can't know. I've kept your secret, but you know such a thing can't be hidden for long."

"I've managed so far," Rowe replied, but the confidence in his tone was forced. The dragon had shaken him.

"You'll find that these things have a way of unraveling themselves," Evren said with a smirk, looking meaningfully over his shoulder.

Rowe frowned and turned. Ravyn was standing there, looking confused at the conversation she had just witnessed. Rowe's heartbeat sped up and he looked back at Evren, but the dragon had vanished into her lair without a sound.

"What was she talking about?" Ravyn asked. "What secret?"

"We have a long way to go, come on," Rowe mumbled, sidestepping her question and brushing past her to head down the mountain. Ravyn wasn't so easily dissuaded, though.

"Rowe, what is it?" she demanded, staying on his heels. Rowe turned suddenly and stopped her in her tracks.

"It's nothing," he said firmly, more humorless than she had ever heard him. That only sparked her curiosity further, but for the time being she fell silent. They caught up with the other three. Freda was hiccupping loudly with her tears and Naima was whispering something comforting in her ear.

The sun was high in the sky as the six started down the treacherous mountain path, leaving the memories of the laborious climb and bouts with death behind them. Only Rowe glanced back once more toward the top of the mountain, where a dragon who knew more than she should was smirking at him. For the first time in his life, Rowe allowed himself the sinking notion that some secrets can't remain buried forever.

* * *

(A/N: By a show of hands, who trusts Rowe? And in response to forthcoming objections about the lack of bloodshed (cough-slipshod-cough), the whole point of this story is to slaughter the fairy tale norm. My dragons can be simultaneously intelligent, dangerous, and soft-hearted and my characters can use words over swords if I so desire.

Other noteworthy notes: 1. This chapter marks the end of Part Two. We're two thirds of the way through! Yay us! 2. I put up a new poll. Previous poll results: voters unanimously liked the changing Saria. 3. I finally found a chance to start on those short stories I talked about previously, using your characters. I speak plurally, because I decided to write two separate stories. So the first six characters entered are being used. Actually, there might be more than six. I can't remember. But I've started, that's what's important. I probably won't tell you if your character is being used (unless I have a question), so yay for surprises.


	28. Home

**A/N: I lied. Part Three begins next chapter. This is a lovely little fluffy filler for your enjoyment (Wow, lots of adjectives). **

* * *

"_The Great Desert is a peculiar beast. Fickle and deceptive, but strangely comforting to those who would make a home of her—it is not a terrific leap of imagination to understand why the Tevouins chose the red sands for their dwelling."_

_--__An Educated Study of the Tevouin People_

When Kat found out that Freda was a runaway and not a victim, it took the combined might of Rowe and Drake to keep Kat from attacking the eleven year-old.

"What's the matter with you?" Kat yelled at the confused girl. "Are you really so spoiled that you--"

"Calm down," Rowe ordered. He was holding her left arm with his heels dug into the dirt as she strained against him. Kat was strong for her thirteen years, though her targeted anger probably lent her some force.

"She's only eleven," Drake reminded. He had Kat's right arm and was braced in the same way as Rowe. Had Kat another handful of pounds to her physique, she might have been able to drag them both.

"Luke could have died—he could be hurt!" Kat cried, but she eased up slightly.

"My parents would never hurt anyone," Freda said meekly, no doubt humbled by the prospect of an imminent mauling should Drake or Rowe decide to let go. She didn't have a fierce dragon to protect her now. Kat was barely a head taller than her, but there was no question that the girl was composed mainly of spitfire and steel and could easily mutilate her given five seconds.

Naima, sensing Freda's anxiety, stepped between her and the furious redhead.

"The sooner we get Freda home, the sooner we can see Luke," Naima pointed out. They were at the base of the mountain, almost a mile from Cullum. Kat had escaped from Leota's motherly nursing and waited for them there, despite Naima's standing orders to stay off her bad ankle.

Kat had wrapped the sprain tightly enough that she could stand to put some minimal weight on it, but at the moment she was more concerned with taking out her frustrations on Freda than the pain erupting in her ankle. She had spent the past three days having tea and maternal concerns shoved down her throat—all because the eleven year-old in front of her got bored of Cullum.

"And we aren't going to tell Leota and Orson about the reality of Freda's…adventure," Drake added. Halfway down the mountain, they had finally decided to give in to Freda's tireless pleas and not inform her parents of her indiscretion. Rowe had been the last to give concede, muttering something about "just desserts," but in the end he agreed that Freda shouldn't have to suffer for her childish whims.

"Luke had better not be hurt," Kat mumbled, by way of consenting. She shook off Drake and Rowe and began limping back toward Cullum.

Freda, still cowering behind Naima, sighed in audible relief.

"You'll want to avoid her," Ravyn pointed out unnecessarily. Freda nodded vigorously.

"She seems more irate than usual," Rowe commented.

"I can hear you!" Kat shouted over her shoulder, irately.

Everyone except Freda, who still looked a bit frightened, held back a smile.

"Well, then," Naima declared brightly. "Let's go rescue Luke from the savage Cullumites."

"I do love being a hero," Rowe said with dry sarcasm.

Cullum accepted the returning heroes with barely a glance and a nod. Freda, however, received a queen's welcome—something she devoured with typical adolescent appetite. Before the news of her return even reached Leota and Orson, she was surrounded by a throng of empathetic admirers.

"You poor child!"

"Oh, was it horrible?"

"How brave you are! Such a little trooper!"

"I was so scared," Freda answered with no little theatrics. "But I knew my family needed me, so I held on." She even managed to squeeze out a tear, recognizing her chance to capture the generous and long-lived attentions of the entire village. She did, however, cast a surreptitious glance in the direction of her rescuers, to reassure herself that they weren't planning on ruining her mounting pity party.

The five from the Tevouin camp remained silent, standing in an unobtrusive line well out of the way of the growing crowd. Kat was glaring steadily, arms crossed. Rowe was rolling his eyes. Naima had both hands at her mouth, hiding a giggle. Drake just looked at Ravyn, who looked back at him, silently defending herself for acting the exact same way as a child.

When Leota caught wind of the news, half the crowd was bowled over as she made her way to her daughter. Orson followed immediately in her wake and together they buried the young girl under a mound of hugs and tears.

It was nearly thirty minutes before anyone remembered that Freda didn't drag herself down the mountain alone. Someone finally left to retrieve Luke, who assured everyone that, despite being tied to a chair for the better part of a month, he was in perfect health. The villagers had provided him with three meals a day and a lovely window-side view. In spite of all this, he was the first to reject Leota's invitation to stay for another week and celebrate Freda's return. No one in Cullum seemed to understand the toll that captivity took on Tevouins. The villagers had been chained to their daily routines for a lifetime and couldn't fathom a different existence. They couldn't imagine the pure torture of living in confinement while the memories of perfect freedom taunted the psyche, just out of reach.

Rowe could, and that's why he was sympathetic to Luke's request that they leave immediately. At Leota's urging, Orson grudgingly returned their weapons and horses, even giving them enough supplies to make a safe journey through the Great Desert.

And so, two hours after completing the treacherous descent down the mountainside and two weeks after their original departure from the Tevouin camp, the travelers began the ride home. When they reached the distinct boundary where Silvern's grey landscape gave way to the fierce, overwhelming red of the desert, everyone reined in their horses without a word. The sun was setting behind them, painting their long, black shadows onto the sand before them.

Kat glared sullenly at the vast distance before her. She was anxious to be home—away from Cullum and Leota's lingering words. Astra had allowed her to join this mission with the hopes that she would learn a lesson, and Kat had no doubt that her experience and conversation with Leota about the value of loyal friends held some sort of life lesson. She just didn't feel the need to sort through the jumble of emotions that lived in her chest and learn it. Truthfully, she felt slighted. What was supposed to be a grand adventure had become a week of Rowe dragging her unconscious through the desert and three days lying unconscious in Cullum and then three more days sipping tea while everyone else risked life and limb and battled mountain lions and negotiated with dragons. She didn't want a life lesson—she wanted the past two weeks of her life back.

Beside her, Naima laughed out loud at nothing visible.

"Well, that's your opinion," she said to her unseen companion. Her voice echoed in the silence, but no one paid her any attention. Her eccentricities were commonplace by now. Drake did allow a single glance in her direction though. He saw her gaze shift from a point in the air to the desert beyond. The fleeting flash of emotion in her hazel eyes made him wonder how often her whimsical attitude was masking fear or unhappiness—both emotions he couldn't imagine her truly experiencing.

He wasn't sure what he felt toward the desert that stretched before him. There was a flurry of sensations in his head, and none were strong enough to define. Maybe he was angry, angry that this barren stretch of sand and heat had almost killed them all. More and more, he was discovering in himself a fierce will to live, something he had never identified before. Of course he had never wanted to die, but finally seeing his life as something worth fighting for, even if that life didn't include Silvern? It was strangely comforting.

To his right, Ravyn stared ahead in contemplation. She didn't want to admit to herself the fear that festered in the pit of her stomach. She didn't want to admit that the merciless red sands before her had her quivering in the saddle. She had almost died out there—not just her, but Drake too. Drake and Naima and Rowe and Kat and she could still remember the heat rising up to meet her, leeching away her last reserves of hope and resolve. There was no guarantee that another sandstorm, or an equally bad fate, wouldn't overtake them in that wide expanse. But despite the aching fear in her chest, Ravyn sat up straight in the saddle and willed herself to be strong. This was the kind of life she had always dreamed about, and now that it had finally become her own, she wasn't going to lie down and die.

Beside Ravyn, Rowe watched with an absent gaze as the breeze caressed the desert sands. It wasn't in his nature to fear what had already been conquered. Even if it were, he had heavier things on his mind. Evren's voice still echoed in his head.

_You know such a thing can't be hidden for long… _

That thought was the only thing he feared at the moment.

The last in the line of riders was Luke. He didn't share the others' need to silently confront the desert and nudged his horse into a canter down the first mild slope. He was eager to leave the sensations of rope and small spaces behind him. Were it possible, he would ride the stretch of desert without rest, if only to reach home that much sooner.

One by one, the riders peeled from the line and followed Luke. The red sand flurried under the thunder of horses' hooves, and memories of Cullum were swiftly left behind. Above, a clear sky showed the first glimpses of an ivory moon. It was going to be a peaceful night.


	29. Part three: Whistle Point

**Arranged: Part Three**

**s8s8s8s8s8s8s8s8s8s8s8s8s8s**

"…_a cold and desolate piece of rock that floats terribly near the shores of the Forbidden East—inhabited only by necessity and haunted by ghost stories of the mainland it rests so near to—that is all there is to be said of the island called Whistle Point."_

_ --"Captain's Log," Jason Roth_

**_One week later…_**

"Where is it?" Saria cried aloud. "It has to be here!" She overturned a crate of odds and ends and began rifling, even though there was no logical reason for the diary to be in there. She had been below deck searching for it all morning, ever since land had come into sight. She was practically starving to set foot on solid ground, but she refused to leave the ship until she found the book.

Above deck, she could hear Captain Roth shouting final orders at his men, assigning various tasks and warning them to stay out of trouble while off ship.

Captain Roth had been in a dour mood ever since the storm. He was preoccupied with overseeing the repairs on his ship and the upkeep of his crew's morale. The captain's mood wasn't the only one affected by the setbacks. The sailors had stopped smiling and telling stories, an understandable reaction upon seeing so many of their shipmates delivered to the depths in a sailor's funeral. The days became longer and colder. Spirits dampened with the weather.

Life had become an unbearable circle of monotony, and Saria was ecstatic when the words "Land ho!" rang down from the crow's nest. Despite being blown several days off course by the storm, the _Celeritas_ had finally docked in Whistle Point.

The small port was named for its location on an islet near the Eastern coast where the wind bellowed through the white cliffs like a cold winter song. Whistle Point was the only port near the yet unexplored land of the Forbidden East. It had only been established as a lay point for trade ships sailing further north. The small, rocky islet was strictly uninhabited, except for a handful of hardy dock masters and their families.

The sailors on the _Celeritas_ only left the ship because rations had to be purchased and repairs had to be made. Whistle Point's environment was less than inviting, with constant, icy winds and sporadic, sleeting rain. No one imagined the climate to be any better on the nearby mainland, where the cold white fog cast everything into obscurity.

The sailors had not been shy in expressing to Alden and Saria how mad they were to even consider stepping on the coast.

"Ghosts be there," whispered one. "Devils too. Ones'll gouge out yer eyes and have yer tongues for dinner."

Saria had been mildly terrified at the time, but right now she was preoccupied with finding the diary that Cadmus had given her. The crate of junk held no clues of its whereabouts and she set her sights on her bag once more. She'd searched it multiple times already, but she decided that this time she would take everything out, one item at a time.

Alden came below deck to find her yanking out her belongings and flinging them behind her in mounting anxiety.

"It probably washed overboard during the storm," he pointed out, walking up behind her and artfully dodging an airborne waterskin.

"That's impossible!" she insisted. It was actually very probable; she just didn't want to consider that the gift, which had become like a living companion to her, was really gone.

"Everyone else is off the ship," Alden said, gathering her far-flung belongings and dumping them back in her lap. "We need to get moving."

Saria breathed a mournful, resigned sigh and started repacking.

"Do you think we can really do this?" she asked. What she really meant was did he think there was any chance of them surviving this half-witted adventure.

"Should be easy." What he really meant was no, probably not.

Saria stood up with a keen sense of responsibility on her shoulders. She had come this far, and with every day the enormity of their task dawned on her a little clearer. She had been a fool to undertake this journey. The chances of survival were slim; the chances of actually finding a cure were almost nonexistent. Every second stole another fragment of optimism.

And yet, she wasn't discouraged. Terrified, yes. She was terrified and exhausted and very aware that she might not ever see Jackson again, but for some inexplicable reason she felt that this was exactly where she was born to be. It was a feeling she had never experienced before, and that lent her strength to continue on this fool's errand.

Alden patted her back as condolence for the lost diary and together they mounted the steps onto the frigid deck.

* * *

"You'll take the boat to the mainland, and three miles inward you'll find the Great Divide." The gnarled dock master traced the route on his faded map. "There's a natural bridge, I ain't sure precisely where, but it's there all right. Dawson Roth—kind of a local hero 'round here—saw it himself 'bout thirty or so years back."

The old man scratched his scraggly beard.

"He never crossed it, on account of his wife goin' into labor in this very port. Don't rightly remember why he never went back to give it another go."

"He's dead," Captain Roth said coolly, not expressing any reaction to the mention of his father.

"Pity," the dock master said. "Brave man, that 'un, and a whole lot more suited for such travelin' than you two." He squinted at Saria and Alden.

"You sure that you two youngsters want to cross into the Forbidden East? It's forbidden for a reason, ya know."

"And what reason would that be?" Alden asked with a hint of a smile.

The dock master didn't have an answer. Saria remembered the dinner with the Silvernian Royals—it felt like years ago—when Princess Ravyn had expressed her desire to see the Forbidden East. The notion had seemed tempting, if utterly impossible. Saria was struck with the sudden urge to laugh out loud. Who would have thought that now, just a month and a half later, she would be standing only a few miles from accomplishing the impossible?

"We're going," she said to the dock master, invigorated by the realization. "Please just tell us what else you know."

The man shook his head in bewilderment.

"Alright, missy, but I surely hate that you two are so set on the matter. 'Tain't a pretty place at all." Had the dock master known he was addressing the Princess of Asher, he might have been a bit more determined to dissuade their suicide mission. But he was a third generation dock master on this rock, and had never so much as seen the mainland of Asher. Keeping up with the government affairs of the distant country was the last thing on his agenda.

He explained to them some more dangers of the Eastern mainland, most of them ghost stories and fireside chatter, and even offered them a dinghy.

"You can row it to the coast, and if you never come back I'll send some men after it," he said generously.

"We certainly appreciate it," Alden said, keeping the amused smile off his face.

"It's settled then," Captain Roth said evenly. "The _Celeritas_ weighs anchor in ten days. If you're late, the next ship won't be by for another three months."

"We won't be late," Saria said quickly. The notion of remaining here for three months while Jackson wasted away reinforced her resolve.

"This'll be one for the history books," the dock master said incredulously. "If'n you make it back, that is."

Saria thought about her would-be husband, the Prince of Silvern, and his ardent devotion to all matters historical. It occurred to her that, if he were still alive, he would be reading about her and Alden in one of those books of his someday. The thought put a smile on her face.

* * *

It was the twenty-seventh day in the Month of the Wolf and the Tevouin camp lay silent under the blanket of night. Luke's victorious rescue party had returned the previous morning, to much celebration and excitement. But now everything was still. Except one person.

Ravyn crept stealthily between the rows of tents, headed for the northern end of the camp. She'd heard through the grapevine that Rowe had the night watch there tonight. He'd been avoiding her questions long enough. She decided it was time to confront him where he couldn't simply make up an excuse to leave.

When she found him, he was recumbent on the sandy incline, faintly illuminated by the silver stars. There was no moon tonight. His chest rose and fell slowly in the rhythm of sleep and Ravyn rolled her eyes. Sometimes she wondered how he ever became a captain in the first place.

She walked closer to him, her footfalls muted by the sand. She was considering nudging him in the side with her foot when his hand shot out to grab her ankle. Ravyn blinked and when she opened her eyes she was on her back in the sand. The sharp edge of a dagger was against her neck and Rowe was breathing heavily a few inches from her face.

"So are you going to kill me?" she asked finally.

"I very well could have!" he snapped, pulling away. "It's very unwise to sneak up on a Tevouin."

"Well, pardon me for interrupting your nap." She was only joking, but Rowe seemed to take her seriously. He'd been doing that a lot lately—becoming defensive at the slightest cause. His mood had been testy since they left the mountain.

"I wasn't napping; I was listening," he replied pointedly. "The desert can play tricks on your eyes, especially at night."

Ravyn frowned at his terse manner, and fell silent.

"Why are you here?" Rowe asked after several moments.

"We have to talk."

"Now isn't exactly the best time for--"

"Just be quiet for one second and listen to me," Ravyn interrupted. "I'm tired of your excuses."

Rowe didn't say anything, so she continued.

"I want to know what Evren was talking about on the mountain."

"It's not--"

"And quit acting like it's not a big deal, because if that were the case, you wouldn't be hiding it from me."

Rowe was quiet for a few seconds, eyes locked firmly on the black horizon. Finally, he spoke.

"Ravyn, I like you," he said softly, taking her hand in his. "But there are some secrets that can't be shared. You have to trust me."

Ravyn caught her breath, feeling drawn back to the ledge on the mountain, where the sunrise made everything seem simpler. But a part of her knew she couldn't return to that naïve bliss.

"That's not good enough," Ravyn said, pulling her hand away. "I like you too, but we're not on the mountain anymore. I'm not going to walk into this with my eyes closed."

Rowe frowned and looked back toward the desert. Ravyn bit her lip and tried to gather herself for another try. She had never dealt with anything like this before, and she wasn't even sure why it was so important that he tell her the secret Evren referred to. She kept telling herself that she trusted Rowe, but even that seemed to lose weight as this conversation progressed. Was she wrong to question him?

Placing her hand under his chin, she turned his face towards hers again.

"Rowe, please…" She didn't know what else to say. She wasn't even sure what she really wanted from him. Maybe just proof that he was who she thought he was.

A thought occurred to her suddenly.

"Is it the reason you were thrown in the dungeons? Is that what you're hiding?"

Rowe didn't answer. In the sparse light of the stars, Ravyn couldn't read his facial expression, so she continued along the thread of thought that had formed in her mind.

"Did you steal something? Hurt someone?"

The silence was deafening, and Ravyn's next words fell from her mouth before she could think.

"Did you kill someone?" They fell like stones, shattering the air with such a heavy accusation.

"Do you really think I would do that?" Rowe asked softly after the space of several breaths. His tone was low and Ravyn couldn't tell if there was hurt or danger in it. Maybe both.

"I don't know what to think," she said finally. "You tell me to trust you, but what can I trust? You won't tell me anything! All I have are stories and rumors—none of which paint the Tevouin in a very delicate light." Her outburst shocked even her. Ever since Naima had first saved them from Grey's soldiers, Ravyn had professed faith in the Tevouins. She never entertained any negative thoughts, and she always told herself that the unpleasant rumors about the desert dwellers were without foundation. But now that she was speaking from the heart, her heart was telling a different story.

What did she truly know about the Tevouins? She knew they were a family. She knew that they were just and fair and essentially peaceful. She had seen evidence of all that, so why was this doubt nagging her? Perhaps, she reasoned, the doubt wasn't toward the Tevouins, but toward one specific Tevouin.

But she'd been around Rowe for nearly a month now, and he had never given her reason to doubt his character. If anything, by going back for Kat in the sandstorm and agreeing to travel up the mountain for Freda, he had solidified her reasons for trusting him. Despite those things, did she honestly know him?

"I see you've been listening to your brother," Rowe said tightly.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded. His tone set her on edge.

"I think you know."

"If you think for a second that I depend on Drake to form opinions for me, then you don't know me at all."

"Well, you think I'm a murderer, so I guess we don't know each other as well as we thought." There was ice in his voice.

Ravyn felt anger wash over her and she set her jaw.

"I guess not."

They stared each other down for almost a minute, letting resentment boil in the air between them. Finally, Ravyn stood up.

"Well, I'm glad we figured this out before any more time was wasted," she muttered, not because she necessarily meant it, but because she was furious with him. She didn't know why she was so mad, except that the image she had built of Rowe was steadily unraveling.

Rowe just looked back at the horizon, silent. Suddenly he jumped to his feet. The quiet air resonated with the whisper-hiss of steel on leather as he drew his sword.

Ravyn's brow furrowed and she squinted into the darkness. She couldn't see a thing, but she could hear a steady rumbling in the distance. Her brain scrambled to place the sound, and she realized it was hooves pounding on the sand. As soon as she guessed what it was, she could see the dark outline of a horse and rider growing steadily larger.

Rowe stepped in front of her and gave her a light shove backwards.

"Go back to camp," he ordered sharply.

Ravyn resisted his push. The nearing rider was probably just a disaffected villager or a disgruntled soldier looking to throw in his lot with the Tevouins. Such people trickled in from time to time. She remembered Naima saying that most desert dwellers, including her and Rowe, had not been born Tevouin.

"Ravyn, go!" Rowe reiterated when he realized she hadn't budged.

"You're overreacting," she said, rolling her eyes and jabbing him in the back with a finger. "It's probably just a refugee."

"You're right," he said. "I just want you to leave."

Ravyn glared at the back of his head, but finally whirled on her heel and left. She was tired of arguing with him. By the time she reached the first row of tents, the thundering of hooves had ceased and she could hear Rowe exchanging words with the rider. Her curiosity outweighed her annoyance and she stopped to look back.

Rowe was leading the horse by its reins towards camp, talking to the rider in low tones. He still clutched his sword in one hand. From what Ravyn could hear, the conversation was heated. She stepped behind a tent so she could listen as they passed.

"...the audacity to show your face." Rowe sounded exceedingly irritated.

"Well, if it makes you feel better, I'm not here for a family reunion. I came to speak with the Council." The stranger's voice was low, fluid, and unemotional.

"What would make me feel better is if you…"

Ravyn couldn't make out anything after that. A few moments later, the bell in the Circle that was used to signal meetings and emergencies began to toll. Its peals were brassy and dissonant in the cool night air. Ravyn ran down the row of tents to the edge of the Circle. The stranger was dismounting.

"No need for that," he said, sounding annoyed. "I only wish to speak with the Council."

"Oh, terribly sorry," Rowe said with the utmost sarcasm as he released the bell rope. "I guess you'll just have to show your traitorous face to the whole camp."

"I don't believe such hostility is warranted."

"Warranted? I'll tell you what's warranted," Rowe said hotly. "My knife in your back, just like you--"

The Circle was beginning to fill with half-awake Tevouins, murmuring quietly, and Ravyn couldn't hear the rest of Rowe's threat. She stayed where she was, suddenly feeling very distant from the Tevouin family. This was obviously an internal issue that she had no part in.

Astra was the first of the Council members to arrive in the Circle. When she saw the man standing beside Rowe, she froze.

"Owen?" she sputtered. "What in Blessed's name are you doing here?"

* * *

**(A/N: Because I'm not a mean person and I really appreciate your patience with my slow updating, I'm posting the next chapter straightaway. So this cliffhanger really isn't a big deal. Heh. But in order to make myself feel better--I shall distract you for a few moments with random notes! Note 1: There were malfunctions with the poll on my profile. Please vote again! Note 2: When I was writing Rowe and Ravyn's argument, a random theme song to their whole little relationship popped into my head. Train's "All I ever Wanted." I included the words here for you to read, 'cause it's an awesome song and fits uncannily well with those two little whippersnappers (at least in my head.) But I strongly suggest immediately going and finding it on I-Tunes if you've never heard it before. Anyway, I'll let you get on with life now. **

_"All I ever Wanted," Train_

You were my ticket out of here,

And I was your dream come true.

You gave me everything I ever wanted--

Except for you.

I convinced myself that over don't mean over,

And I convinced myself that I could fix it all.

Two dreams collided,

Maybe we got too excited for our own good.

No more "hold on we can make it."

No more holdin' each other while the words all break it.

Move on, you know we'll be stronger in the end.

Now I convinced myself that nothing could ever tear me away,

And I convinced myself that we'd look back and laugh at this one day

Two lives collidin', baby,

We got too excited for our own good

No more "hold on we can make it."

No more holding each other while the truth all breaks it

Move on, you know we'll be stronger in the end

Hey wait, hey don't you know that this is where the whole thing went wrong?

Hey wait, hey don't you wanna hear what I have to say?

Hey wait, hey don't you know this is where the strong go on?

And all I ever wanted,

all I ever wanted,

all I ever wanted

is you.

No more "hold on we can make it."

No more holdin' each other while the world tries to break us

Move on, you know we'll be stronger in the end.

Hey wait, hey don't you know that this is where the whole thing went wrong?

Hey wait, hey don't you wanna hear what I have to say?

Hey wait, hey don't you know this is where the strong will go on.

All I ever wanted…

all I ever wanted…

all I ever wanted…

is you.


	30. Monarchy

"_Rebellions, seditions, treason—all these come against the monarchy, time and time again. But you'll find that rebels are blinded by passion, seditionists grow too smug in their plotting, and treason—that unspeakable crime—brings about its own punishments to the guilty." _

_ --__Eternal Bloodlines of the Monarchy_

"I've come to speak with the Council," Owen replied to Astra, steadily unaffected by the numerous glares and quiet curses being flung at him from all sides by the gathered Tevouins.

"Well, the Council will not speak to you," said the eldest Council member as he arrived.

"You refuse my petition?" Owen demanded. Tevouins could petition the Council whenever they wanted, and were guaranteed an audience.

"You gave up that right when you deserted," Astra answered.

"I couldn't save them," Owen snapped, temporarily losing his masterful self-control. He stopped himself and glanced down, gathering himself with a deep breath. "I only ask for ten minutes."

Astra looked stalled by his overt show of emotion. She hesitated and exchanged glances with the other luminaries that had come. Finally, she nodded brusquely.

"Ten minutes." She waved him into the crimson Council tent and the rest of the luminaries filed in behind. The Tevouins in the Circle fell into a respectful, yet apprehensive, silence. The meeting in the crimson tent lasted much longer than ten minutes, remaining too quiet for potential eavesdroppers, even in the empty night air.

Astra was the first to leave the tent.

"Rowe, gather the other captains," she ordered with purpose, and then addressed the gathered Tevouins. "I want everyone out of the Circle. Go back to your beds. Devon--" she grabbed a young man by his arm. "Where is Kat?"

"She and Dobbs have been at the Outskirts since midnight," the boy replied, stifling a yawn and staring over Astra's shoulder at Owen, who had just exited the Council tent. "Kat's suspension from the training grounds ended then."

Astra grabbed him by his shoulders to make him focus.

"I want you to go to the Outskirts and keep her there. She probably heard the bell, so tell her it was a false alarm."

Devon looked confused.

"But--"

"Go," Astra ordered.

Devon looked again at Owen, and then back at Astra. He licked his lips as if trying to gather the courage to argue with the her.

"Kat has a right to see him," he managed finally. "He is her brother."

Astra sighed deeply.

"There are heavier issues here. Now, go."

En masse, the Tevouins migrated back to their tents. Ravyn was largely ignored as they passed, caught up in their private conversations. She contented herself with remaining still and listening to the snippets of dialogue as Tevouins passed.

"—Kat's brother, isn't it?"

"Filthy, rotten traitor…"

"Only a deserter."

"There's no difference. He deserves to hang. Or burn."

"The Council would never allow it, not with Kat here."

"Pity."

Ravyn began to understand Kat's bitterness. Her family name was more than scorned; it was reviled. She peeked through a gap between tents to catch another glimpse of Owen in the dim light of the lanterns. He was slightly taller than average, standing several inches above Rowe. His build was slight, nothing spectacular, and there was a cold confidence in his demeanor that was nigh overpowering. Except for his nose and mouth, Ravyn couldn't see any resemblance to his sister. Kat was short and compacted, a bundle of pure stubborn energy. Her hair was fiery red and her eyes were sharp green. Owen's hair and eyes were both dark. But they had the same hawkish nose, the same tight lips. He was grimly handsome.

The way he held himself reminded Ravyn of Drake in a very unsettling way. Perhaps that was why he looked so familiar, but Drake was different now. The adventures with the Tevouins had changed him. Owen was like a ghost of the past.

While Ravyn observed the man that had the Tevouins so ruffled, the captains gathered in the Circle. There were only ten of them; one representative for every hundred Tevouins. Ravyn had never imagined the Tevouins as being so small in number. The daily bustle of the camp felt innumerable in measure, but in reality it would only take half of Silvern's army to overrun the Tevouins. Not even a quarter of King Cyrus's could do the job. Truly, it was only their position deep in the unforgiving desert that kept them from being wiped out.

Ravyn remembered Cyrus's attempt several months ago to do just that. After years of being buried in the fatal, barren heat of the Great Desert, the Tevouins had finally moved near enough to Asher that Cyrus could send troops. He seized his opportunity and sent hundreds, maybe a thousand. Of the thousand Tevouins, only half were able to fight and only half of that had extensive training. Asherian knights were born and bred with a sword in hand. It should have been an easy massacre, and it was. Ten of Cyrus's knights returned, barely alive. Their tales of brutality, sorcery, and deadly poison filled the fearful ears of every citizen in Asher and Silvern.

After seeing the Tevouins for herself, Ravyn knew that those tales were grossly exaggerated, but a part of her wondered if there was a hint of truth to them. How else could the Tevouin victory be explained? If not brutality and sorcery, they did have poison so potent that a graze of an arrow would kill a man. But they no longer had that anymore, did they? Rowe had given up the antidote at the Asherian castle. She had never let herself consider it in that light before, but he had surrendered his people's greatest weapon for the sake of freedom. Her image of him unraveled even further and she pushed it to the back of her mind.

She was deeply confused and immensely tired of judging motives and character; she missed the days before all of this, when everything and everyone was right and good—when intrigue, distrust, and betrayal were all mere figments of storybooks. But life had never really been like that, had it? She had only been too caught up with her own blissful existence to notice. She began to understand why Drake didn't smile anymore; he left behind that blissful existence a lot sooner than she did.

The captain's meeting had begun.

Ravyn listened intently with only a slight guilt at her blatant eavesdropping. Owen was insisting that his purpose for coming was for the Council's ears only.

"What you've told us concerns every Tevouin. It is up to them to pass verdict on your…proposal." Astra's voice was colder than ice.

A hand touched Ravyn's arm, and she spun in alarm. It was Drake. She expected him to scold her for eavesdropping and send her back to her tent. To her surprise, he simply motioned for her to be quiet. He was curious too. They listened together.

"Who says we even want to hear what he has to say?" one of the captains muttered gruffly, crossing his arms. Other captains murmured in agreement.

"You will listen," snapped the eldest luminary. "It is your duty."

"To blazes with duty!" snarled a graying captain. "My son and daughter both died while this ruttin' coward turned tail. He's gonna pay!" The man stepped forward, hand on the dagger in his belt.

Rowe thrust out an arm to push him back.

"Peace, Jacob," he ordered with authority beyond his years. "This isn't the way to settle it."

Jacob gave Rowe a violent shove.

"Don't preach to me, boy," he cried vehemently. "If you had any idea how I feel, you wouldn't defend him."

"I'm not defending him," Rowe answered sharply. He put a hand on Jacob's chest and pushed him a solid step away from Owen. "And don't think for a second that you're the only person who lost someone in that slaughter." There was enough conviction in his tone that Jacob didn't push the issue further. He seemed to calm the slightest bit, though he still refused to look in Owen's direction. An inaudible sigh of relief that the crisis had been averted seemed to course through everyone present.

Only Ravyn noticed that Rowe had pulled Jacob's knife from his belt and tossed it surreptitiously out of the Circle, no doubt to nip any further crises in the bud. Jacob was too emotionally strained to realize his weapon had vanished.

"I wonder…" Drake began in a thoughtful whisper. "Who did Rowe lose?"

Ravyn realized that Drake had caught something she missed—how painful it was for Rowe to hold Jacob back from his revenge.

"He lost his best friend." Naima came up behind them. Her voice was low and heavy.

"I don't understand," Drake said quietly. "How did Cyrus manage to send a raiding party this far into the desert?"

"Because he didn't send a raiding party—he sent negotiators waving a white flag. It was two years ago. Cyrus's men waited just outside of Merchant's Row, several miles away from the desert border. Three Council members decided to meet them. In case of trickery, thirty Tevouins rode with them, all of them brilliant fighters, and outnumbering the negotiating party three to one. This was before Astra became a luminary, and she, Rowe, and several others were dealing with bandits on the Silvernian border." Naima took a deep breath, as if the story was exhausting to tell. Perhaps, emotionally, it was.

"It was an ambush," she continued grimly. "A vicious one too—almost a hundred knights came from all directions, blocking them in. It lasted less than ten minutes. Our fighters never stood a chance." She shook her head softly. "Thirty-three Tevouins rode that day. Thirty-two were slaughtered. One deserted in the middle of the fight and never came home, until tonight." She glanced through the gap at Owen. Ravyn saw streams of tears glistening on her cheeks in the revealing lantern light.

Drake and Ravyn just watched her in dumb silence, stricken immobile by the sorrow of the tale she wove.

"Nathaniel Lee of Asher was one of the Tevouins that Cyrus's knights slaughtered. He was Rowe's best friend—a brother by oath." She paused and her eyes fluttered momentarily. Her knees seemed to falter with a dangerous loss of strength, but she quickly straightened. "He was my brother by blood."

Ravyn's heart lurched within her and she took Naima's hand comfortingly. Naima pressed forward with dogged resolve, as if the story was pushing at her throat.

"We didn't hear what happened until the next day when one of the merchants sent a message by hawk." She looked down despondently, still struggling with words. "The knights had just left them there—just lying there…dead…" She trailed off and didn't try to continue.

The three stood in somber silence as the captain's meeting progressed. The atmosphere of the Tevouin camp suddenly seemed suffocating with anger and sorrow.

"The monarchy of Silvern and Asher is deteriorating," Owen was saying to his reluctant listeners. "You all know what a dangerous and unjust system it is."

Of course they did. The Tevouin people were founded on the basis of freedom from monarchy's chains.

"Well," Owen continued, gaining momentum. "That system is finally failing, crumbling onto itself."

"You came here just to tell us that?" a female captain demanded. "Like we don't already know! The prince and princess of Silvern are--"

"Dead," Rowe interrupted flatly, shooting his comrade a warning glance. "And she's right. We know the monarchy in Silvern is weak, but Asher remains strong."

"Not forever," Owen said, looking curiously at all the faces. Rowe's quick interruption had no doubt aroused suspicion, but Owen's fire of purpose kept him from dwelling on it much longer. "Asher's time is coming soon. I came here to find out if the Tevouins are willing to rise to the occasion."

"We aren't revolutionaries," someone said.

"We just want peace," cried another. "Cyrus brings us war enough, and now you come wanting us to start one?"

"There will be no war," Owen answered smoothly. "The plan is already in motion. Asher's monarchy will fall without you having to lift a sword."

"What do you mean?" asked Rowe, his voice wracked with suspicion. Others felt the same suspicion and began voicing their questions and concerns. The meeting slowly degenerated into a boiling pot of disorder.

A rare flash of annoyance flared across Owen's features and he glanced at Astra as if expecting her to retain order. When he turned his head, the long scar on his cheek sent phantom pains through Ravyn's hands and forearms. The cuts on her palms had healed well enough, but the faint scars on her forearms from that broken vase would be with her forever, a constant reminder of that fateful night. She had nightmares, on occasion, of sickly warm blood, the terror of creeping unconsciousness, and her kidnapper's face, shrouded by shadows.

She had honestly never expected to see him again, or even recognize him if she did. But at the sight of Owen's scar, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was the one who gave it to him when she sliced her kidnapper's face with a shard of glass. She grabbed Drake's arm and squeezed so tightly that he winced.

"Drake, that's him," she murmured breathlessly. Drake just looked confused. Ravyn's grip tightened as her brain caught the full weight of the notion. Owen had kidnapped her and set all this madness into motion, and now he stood scarcely a few hundred yards away.

"What are you talking about, Rae?" Drake asked as he attempted to pry her fingers off his arm.

"Owen is the man who kidnapped me!"

Drake looked up abruptly. His eyes met hers and wordless confirmation passed between them. It was the moment for revelations, because in that precise second, Astra asked Owen the question that no one had yet considered.

"How are you so sure that the prince and princess of Silvern are dead? If I recall, their bodies were never found."

Owen hesitated for a brief moment—a split second of uncertainty as to whether truth or lies would further this cause that burned so fervently in his chest. He spoke.

"Because I ordered them killed myself."

No one present could imagine his shock when the mass of Tevouins suddenly parted and the Crown Prince of Silvern stood before him, alive and well. Drake drilled him with a glare that would melt ice, and then he drilled his fist into the man's face.

It was only the third time in his life that Drake had resorted to force, the second being the physical confrontation of his father's guard at the botched Royal wedding. The first time, he had been eight and a petulant noble's son had pulled Ravyn's hair. He had the seven year-old pinned to the floor before Grey had showed up and pulled him off. Drake thought he had outgrown such displays by now, but the thought of his sister, terrified, bleeding, and unconscious because of the man before him, had lit a fire in his skull.

Owen took the blow with admirable fortitude, only stumbling back a step. He didn't seem interested in retaliation, only in wrapping his head around the turn of events. He touched his busted lip lightly, still muted with surprise.

"So the General failed," he said at length. "I should have done the deed myself."

Drake had the overwhelming urge to hit him a second time, but his self-control swiftly thought better of it. Besides, his knuckles were aching steadily from the first punch. He had never considered before how painful it was to hit someone.

Ravyn brought the reply to Owen's statement as she ran to stand beside her brother. For some reason, Naima didn't follow.

"We never did anything to you!" Ravyn cried angrily. "Drake would have helped Silvern."

"Oh, I never doubted that he would have tried," Owen answered lightly. "But the monarchy is poison to its people. How can you deny it? Silvern and Asher have been deteriorating for years."

Drake didn't attempt to deny that. He knew history just as well as Owen did. Ravyn wasn't appeased.

"So you had to kidnap me? You had to have us killed?"

Owen actually looked briefly regretful.

"Sacrifices have to be made," he said softly. "For the greater good."

"You kidnapped her?" Rowe asked. "You were at the castle that night?"

Something like a smirk crossed Owen's features.

"It's taken you this long to figure it out, Roland? I would have expected better." Even though he had ten captains, five luminaries, and two angry royals stacked against him, somehow Owen seemed to still be in charge of the situation. His quiet confidence was unsettling, as if he knew something groundbreaking that made all of this irrelevant.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Rowe demanded, ignoring the use of his full, hated name. "You helped me escape."

"What do you mean, Rowe?" Astra asked.

"I told you, the only reason I escaped from the dungeons the second time was because someone attacked a guard right as he was unlocking the door to my cell to give me some water. I thought it was just an escaping prisoner—I never saw him. But it was you, wasn't it?" He shot Owen an incredulous look.

"I thought it only fair, since my plans unfortunately required that you be locked up there in the first place."

"What are you talking about?"

"I needed a scapegoat, someone who everyone would readily believe had kidnapped the foreign princess. Why not a Tevouin? I could use Cyrus's extreme distrust to my advantage. You just happened to be in Dunn's Hill when I set things into motion. I told the knights that a Tevouin had stolen some cattle in Dunn's Hill. They never even questioned me, and were all too eager to throw a 'desert devil' into a cage." He shrugged as if it was a matter as trivial as the weather.

Rowe, on the other hand, was growing more silently enraged with every word. When Owen shrugged unconcernedly, his anger had peaked. He immediately forgot that force was not the way to settle the situation and dove at Owen with every ounce of force in his being. They hit the sand with a loud _thumph_, narrowly missing two of the luminaries.

"I was in that cage for almost two months!" he cried, gripping Owen's collar and shaking him violently.

"I freed you, didn't I?" Owen gasped. Evidently, this reply wasn't satisfactory, because he received two blows to the face, much more potent than Drake's, before Jacob and another captain pulled Rowe off.

"Not the way to settle it, eh?" Jacob asked in good humor. He was ecstatic to see Owen receive a fraction of the pain he felt was due, and had only removed Rowe at Astra's signal.

Rowe didn't seem to hear him and remained pitted toward Owen. No Tevouin would blame him. To desert dwellers, death was pittance in comparison to captivity. If loyalty was worth a man's life, freedom was worth his very soul. Rowe felt a bit of his own soul had been left behind in those dungeons. The clammy darkness had ripped away his strength and his will, leaving him in a state that he had promised himself he'd never experience again. He'd been willing to trade anything to be free of that place, and feared that he would have, if a higher price had been named. He'd lost sight of himself in that wretched dungeon, and that's why anger consumed him.

Owen dragged himself to his feet, refusing assistance.

"It was the only way," he insisted to Rowe. "There had to be a Tevouin to blame, so that the prince would follow the ransom note to Dunn's Hill."

"Then you should have locked yourself in the dungeons," Rowe spat. "But then, you're not really a Tevouin anymore, are you?" It was a scathing accusation.

Suddenly Naima was beside him.

"Rowe, please…" she said softly.

Rowe looked at her, something unidentifiable flashing across his features. He pressed his lips together tightly and looked down. Everyone fell silent. The tension in the air between Naima and Owen was almost tangible.

"Naima," Owen said, losing some of the fire in his voice. It was hard to remain resolved with those hazel eyes boring straight through his conscience. He felt as if she was staring at his very soul. "I'm so sorry about Nat. He--"

"You're two years too late for condolences," Naima interrupted painfully.

"I tried to save him," Owen insisted. "But once he died…"

"You ran," Naima finished for him.

"I should have stayed?" he demanded. "I should have stayed there and died with them?"

"No," Naima answered firmly, evoking a stifled gasp from the other Tevouins. No one had ever dared to suggest that Owen wasn't wrong for deserting. "But you should have come back."

"Come back to what?" he asked bitterly. "To scorn and ridicule?"

"Back to your family," Naima said resolutely, visibly fighting the urge to despise the man before her. "Back to your sister."

Her words settled heavily in the air.

"I've spent those two years working for the Tevouin cause," Owen insisted, as if he could redeem himself with more explanations. "You have always believed in freedom. All of the Tevouins have. It's time for that freedom to extend to all citizens. The monarchy has to be destroyed, and I plan on being the one to do it—with or without the Tevouins' help."

"We also stand for peace," Naima replied sedately. "For goodwill and justice. You've compromised them all for your cause."

"Sacrifices have to be made." Owen repeated, glancing briefly at the two royals. "I thought the Tevouins wanted change."

"Not like this," Naima said mournfully, shaking her head. "Never like this."

Owen stiffened.

"Is that your opinion then?" he asked coolly.

"You've admitted to betrayal, kidnapping, and attempted murder. What other atrocities must be committed before you're satisfied with your new world?"

"It's not my world! It's ours. Everyone's."

"A world built on betrayal, lies, and murder is no better than a monarchy."

"But the monarchy in Silvern is gone now! Because I had the resolve to do what needed to be done."

"You didn't just bring down a monarchy with your actions. You hurt people, real people." Naima put her hand on Ravyn's shoulder.

Owen's features hardened.

"You side with them over me?" he demanded.

"You've forgotten what's most important in this world," Naima replied. "I still remember, and that's what I stand by."

"And the Council as well," Astra said, crossing her arms.

"And the people," added Rowe, with the captains nodding in agreement.

Owen's face darkened.

"You refuse my proposal?" he asked.

Overwhelming silence was the affirmation. Two of the captains stepped forward to bind his hands. By Tevouin law and the law of the land, he was a criminal.

"Your cowardice will catch up with you," Owen warned, not bothering to struggle.

"There is no cowardice in clinging to morality," Naima said softly. It was a quote that only Drake and Astra recognized as Avalyn's—the respected Tevouin philosopher of so many years ago.

Owen was led away and the captains began to disperse. The sun's rays were beginning to break into the sky. Naima stood still as a single tear rolled down her cheek. She stared straight ahead at nothing, except maybe memories.

"Nai," Rowe began softly, putting his hand on her arm. His own voice sounded strained with sorrow, perhaps by the same memories. Owen's return had opened up many old wounds.

"It's all right," Naima said with a shadow of her usual smile as a distinctive breeze fluttered through her hair. "Everything is going to turn out all right. You'll see." Then she walked away, humming softly to herself, her bare feet silent in the sand.

* * *

**(A/N: Before you start lecturing me about neglecting Saria and Alden, the next chapter is dedicated solely to them, I promise.)  
**


	31. Nightmare

"_When my tortured sleep meets the rising sun,_

_I find my worst nightmare is a waking one._

_When the sunlight fades beam by beam,_

_How happy I am to return to my dreams!"_

_--The poet Ettne_

Saria wasn't sure if ghosts inhabited the mainland of the Forbidden East, but in the dense fog and chill, she couldn't shake the feeling that _something_ was out there in that white void. She barely see an inch in front of her face and hated the way the landscape would reach out and prod her—a rock to the shin, a spider web to the face, mud underfoot. Every time a spindly, dead branch scratched her arm she would jump and shriek. Alden hadn't stopped laughing at her since they reached the shore.

"It's a wasteland," he pointed out the eleventh time she got startled. "There's nothing here."

As if on cue, something living scurried across her foot, and Saria flew backwards with a small scream. She and Alden ended up on the moist ground in a heap.

"Be quiet," Saria snapped when she regained her senses, before Alden could mock her again.

"Do you hear that?" Alden asked as she rolled off him.

"Quit trying to scare me."

"No, I'm serious!"

A low, throaty growl echoed in the fog to their left. It sounded distant, but still near enough to be a threat.

"What is it?" Saria asked in a whisper, hoping she didn't sound too petrified.

"What does it matter?" Alden asked, pulling her to her feet. "Run."

They ran as fast as they could through the blind fog. The weather seemed to grow more and more violent as they advanced further inland. The wind picked up and felt like shards of ice assaulting their skin. The ground grew harder beneath their feet and eventually became dotted with patches of ice. Both Saria and Alden slipped and fell on numerous occasions.

Despite the stinging wind and the growing number of bruises and scratches, they kept running. Eventually their running devolved into tortured jogging, and finally into exhausted walking. The wall of fog on all sides betrayed no more sounds of predators, and they allowed themselves to hope that the threat had been evaded.

When the dock master had traced the route on his map, three miles inland had seemed a pittance. Now Saria began to suspect that they would never come to the Great Divide. Perhaps they were doomed to wander in this ghostly and vicious fog for all eternity. Each step began to feel a little like death.

Something brushed her ankle.

Saria's heart leaped into her throat, and she jumped to the left, almost directly into Alden's arms, had he the reflex or the strength to catch her.

"Could you stop doing that?" he asked.

"There's something there!"

"It's a rock. Or a tree."

"That moves?"

"We rode through Fairden Forest, and you're telling me that a moving tree would surprise you?"

"Alden, I'm serious!"

"What do you want me to do? Slay the wicked, invisible beast? I've got some dry bread, maybe we can try to choke it to death…"

"You're so insensitive," Saria complained.

"I honestly don't know what--"

A low croak, not unlike the creaking of a massive door sounded right next to them.

"See!" Saria declared triumphantly, forgetting to be frightened.

"Doesn't that sound like--"

The fog lifted. The mysterious gray cat was sitting on the ground, licking his paw and glaring at them with his wide amber eyes.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Alden declared incredulously.

Saria stooped down immediately and gathered the cat into her arms. His warm fur on her face felt positively delicious, and she was temporarily distracted from everything else in the world. Alden wasn't.

"Saria, there's no way that cat followed us here! We crossed an ocean. It has to be a ghost or something."

"You don't believe in ghosts," she said.

"I also don't believe that normal cats can magically appear on different continents."

"Maybe he stowed away on the ship somehow."

"Or maybe he's a ghost." Alden reached out to poke the gray fur, and the cat hissed testily, swiping a paw.

"You're hurting his feelings," Saria snapped.

Alden looked heavenward, which looked as bleak as the ground beneath them.

"What is it with girls and fuzzy animals?" he lamented and started walking again. A few steps later, he stopped, looking to his right.

"Saria, turn around."

Saria obeyed and gasped. Barely four feet from where she was standing, the ground ended and an immeasurable drop began. Before the cat had nudged her, she had probably been lethally close to the edge. If she had strayed only slightly to the right…

"I can't believe we're really here," Alden said with a touch of awe. The Great Divide was everything the stories said it was, but incomprehensibly more. They were standing on the natural bridge, which was hundreds of yards wide itself. To their left and right, the monstrous rift of the Divide stretched too far for the eye to see. It was at least a mile wide, and in the fog they had already crossed about a fourth of the distance. Truthfully, it could have been much wider—the other side was lost in the distance.

Its depth was magnificent. The Asherian castle could be placed inside, and the tops of the flag towers wouldn't even reach ground level. Neither Alden nor Saria wanted to even consider how easy it would have been in the fog to merely step off into the void.

"We've gone farther than Dawson Roth," Saria said reverently.

"It wasn't so hard," Alden said. "I wonder why everyone is so uptight about it."

"We could have died!" Saria exclaimed.

"We came a lot closer on the _Celeritas_," Alden reminded.

Saria looked at the newly visible surroundings and let herself consider that maybe the worst really was over. What if the horror stories about the Forbidden East were just grossly exaggerated sailors' yarns? In the clear air, the raw, rough landscape didn't seem threatening. There were boulders and dying trees and puddles of gray mud and slabs of murky ice, but nothing to suggest anything but a simple wasteland. The torturous journey to this point was quickly forgotten. Saria hugged the cat closer and allowed a tight smile.

Of course, things couldn't remain peaceful for long. The weather deteriorated soon after. An icy wind picked up, and snow began to fall. As they continued across the natural bridge, Saria and Alden huddled in their cloaks against the chill. The delicate snowflakes were picturesque at first, but as the wind grew stronger it became evident that this little snowstorm was shaping into something far more dangerous.

"We have to find shelter!" Saria shouted against the storm. The wind snatched away her voice almost before it left her mouth.

"Where do you suggest?"

She could barely hear Alden, even though he was right beside her. But his point was made—the flat, barren landscape around them provided no hope for shelter.

"We'll freeze to death!" Saria exclaimed, wincing at the frost coating her lungs as she gasped in a breath of air.

"Just keep walking," Alden grunted, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to press her forward. Saria recognized the look on his face, though she could barely see him through the blizzard. His features were tight with a grim determination. It was the same look he'd donned in Fairden Forest and during the storm on the Celeritas. It was the same look he had every time they were about to die.

"Just keep walking," he repeated, purposefully not meeting Saria's eyes.

Saria obeyed, wondering how everything had changed from perfect to fatal in a matter of seconds. The cat in her arms began to squirm, hissing and clawing at her arms. She was forced to let him drop. The gray cat vanished into the white wall of snow, leaving Saria and Alden alone in the murderous wasteland.

* * *

Grey felt strangely alone in the Asherian castle. The days crawled by at a miserable pace, and all he could do was pace the corridors and wonder. He wondered what was taking Owen so long in the Great Desert. He wondered if the Tevouins would join in Owen's master plan. He wondered what exactly Owen's plan was. Sometimes he wondered if Alden and the princess were still alive. On rare occasions, he wondered if his son hated him, and if that was why he ran away. Most of the time, Grey just wondered what was to become of them all.

On the twenty-eighth day in the Month of the Wolf, Grey found himself watching the rain outside the bay windows in one of the secluded parlors of the castle. The same thoughts as every other day were running through his head, but today they were interrupted by King Cyrus brushing into the room. One look at the man's greedily determined features and Grey knew that the day he feared had finally come. Cyrus was tired of waiting and ready to make his move.

Grey breathed deeply and clasped his hands behind his back. The rain pounded mercilessly on the windows, a ready distraction. He wished the storm could drown out what was coming next.

"The doctors have informed me that my son is dying," Cyrus said by way of greeting.

"My condolences," Grey replied politely, knowing that Cyrus was not out for sympathy.

"Terrible business, all of it. I lie awake at night, tormented by the thought of Asher having no heir."

"Unless I'm mistaken, there is no evidence to suggest that your daughter isn't alive and well."

Cyrus snorted.

"Don't be daft, man. That flighty, insolent _girl_ could never sit on the throne. She'd need a husband first, which is what I was _trying_ to accomplish with that wedding, but now that's completely botched." He shook his head. "People keep dying. Dreadfully inconvenient for me, you understand."

"For them as well, I imagine," Grey muttered offhandedly, waiting for Cyrus to come around to his point.

The king guffawed at the comment.

"And also for you. It's terrible to think of all those greedy nobles squabbling over the throne now that the Silvernian royalty is dead. Where does it leave Silvern, exactly? A country needs stability—which means a king on the throne and a healthy heir in the crib."

Grey glanced heavenward, taking a calming breath. History made it obvious that monarchy did not allow for stability. Of course, Cyrus would never understand that.

"So it appears that circumstances have put us both in dire straits," Cyrus continued. "But you'll be relieved to know that I have a solution."

Grey remained silent, so Cyrus pushed forward.

"Silvern needs protection, and I need to secure Asher's future. You are Silvern's most decorated hero; they will gladly look to you for leadership and direction. Shouldn't you take advantage of that? Before the grasping nobility breaks the country into pieces?"

"I haven't really thought about it," Grey said lightly. Truthfully, he _had_ thought of it. More than anything, he wanted to ride into Silvern on a white horse, banner waving, and pull his homeland out of its ruin. But Silvern didn't need a shining knight; it needed someone with a deeper purpose, someone who would go the distance no matter the cost—someone like Owen. Unfortunately, Owen had ridden off to the Great Desert and not returned. Grey began to feel a mild sense of despair crawling into his gut. This was a nightmare.

"In truth, you are the closest thing to a king that Silvern has at the present," Cyrus said carefully, looking sideways at Grey with his crafty gaze. "That is of use to me, sir."

"I'm afraid you're being cryptic, your majesty." Grey strained to remain polite, though he knew exactly what the king was saying.

"As a princess, my daughter must marry royalty—or the closest thing available."

When Grey didn't respond, Cyrus slapped him on the back.

"That's you."

Grey had to take a deep breath to steady himself.

"Your daughter is only sixteen."

"She's well past the age to be wed. If I don't act soon, she'll be an old maid, and an old maid is of no use to Asher—or Silvern, for that matter."

Grey felt sick to his stomach at the way Cyrus talked about his only daughter. But then, he wasn't exactly a model father himself, was he?

_You hit your son. You _beat _your son. If Lara were still alive…_

"You'll marry my daughter," Cyrus continued, forgetting to phrase it as a suggestion. "I will send a portion of my army to Silvern in order to…protect it."

"You've forgotten something," Grey interrupted coolly, silencing the guilty voice in his head. "I haven't agreed."

"But you will," Cyrus replied evenly, and Grey knew they had reached the point he had been dreading. Cyrus had realized that Silvern was utterly helpless. All this marriage business was merely a formality to ensure the Asherian people's backing.

Owen had warned Grey that Cyrus would push for a merger; he had also warned that it must be avoided at all costs.

"I can't," Grey said, barely mustering resolve.

"Then there will be war."

"You wouldn't risk it. Your people will never support you."

"When they hear that the son of the great Silvernian general kidnapped the princess—no doubt as a prelude to a more treacherous plot—I will have all the support I need."

"You know that isn't true," Grey snapped.

"They don't," Cyrus replied smugly.

"Silvern will fight back. There will be blood—you know that."

"A little blood will be worth it in the end."

"Don't you understand?" Grey demanded angrily. "There is no more gold in Silvern. No more silver. No more precious stones. The land is dry and barren. People are starving to death in their homes."

"Then you should be thanking me for my offer," Cyrus said, not sounding surprised at Grey's outburst. Grey realized that he must have known about Silvern's lack of riches long before, maybe even before the wedding.

"Why do you keep hounding us?" Grey asked tiredly, rubbing his temples. "If you know that Silvern has nothing to offer--"

"That's where you're wrong. Silvern has plenty to offer—an adequate military, fine generals…"

"You want our army?"

"Asher will become the most formidable kingdom in the world." There was undeniable triumph in Cyrus's voice and expression. It made Grey sick.

"I won't play into your little plan," he spit out.

"Fine, then it will be war." Cyrus didn't seem concerned either way. He knew he would get what he wanted.

Grey gritted his teeth, knowing he was cornered. But there had to be a better solution. He had to stall this merger for as long as possible. Owen might still return.

"My son," Grey blurted suddenly, struck with a spark of ingenuity.

"What?"

"If you're so keen on merging our bloodlines, then my son would be a better choice. He is my sole heir, and he's in the prime of his life."

Cyrus scratched his chin absently, considering.

"An acceptable alternative," he conceded with a nod.

Grey released a low breath as Cyrus left the room. He had just bought himself an indeterminate amount of time. Cyrus could have pulled off a wedding without the bride present, but not without the bride and the groom. Of course, in another week or so, Cyrus would realize the possibility that Alden and Princess Saria would never return. When that happened, Silvern would be facing war. Grey decided he would have to cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he couldn't risk sending any warning to Silvern, since Cyrus probably had spies watching his every move. All he could do was wait. Wait and wonder.

* * *

Alden was the first to fall. He stumbled and vanished into the blanket of fatal white without a sound. Saria dropped to her knees beside him, fumbling blindly until she found his hand. She pulled his arm to help him up, but he didn't budge.

"Just a few minutes of rest," he mumbled, rolling onto his back. He was barely audible over the raging storm.

Some part of Saria's mind screamed that they had to stand up. They had to keep moving. If they lay down here, then they would die. But she was so tired, so cold. Surely a few minutes wouldn't hurt—just a few minutes to regain their strength, and then they would push forward.

The blizzard had only gotten worse, and it had been blowing in a terrible frenzy for hours on end. The thick powder on the ground was difficult to slog through, and the sheets of white billowing around them had turned their world into a blind, frozen tomb.

Saria's eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and she was shivering so hard that it hurt. She followed Alden's arm up to his shoulder and laid her head on it. It was less cold than the snowy ground.

"Your highness, that is highly improper," Alden slurred through numb lips.

Saria turned her face toward his, suddenly desperate to see his laughing gray eyes, suddenly desperate for the reassurance that this feeling of death settling over her was unfounded. Alden's eyes were closed.

"M-m-must you joke at a time like th-th-this?" she mumbled, finding that her lips were numb as well.

"I'm so sorry, Saria." There was so much conviction in his tone that Saria frowned.

"Why?"

"We didn't make it. I promised you we would, and…"

"Stop talking like that!" Saria felt suddenly panicked, and more frightened than she had ever been on this entire adventure. If Alden was giving up, then maybe it was really over. Jackson's face flashed through her mind, and she knew she couldn't give up.

"We're going to make it," she insisted. "We're going to stand up right now. Right now."

"Alright," Alden muttered. "Right now."

Neither of them moved. Maybe another couple of minutes would be better.

"I have something to confess," Alden murmured.

"Please, I'm not in the mood for jokes." All Saria really wanted to do was sleep.

"I'm being serious. You need to know—I didn't come here for your brother."

"Mhhmm…" Saria was too tired to care.

"I didn't even think we would get this far. I just wanted to get away from my father."

"Mhhmm…"

"He hit me, Saria. He gave me that black eye and a lot more."

That managed to penetrate the numbness settling into Saria's brain. She looked at him; his eyes were open, but there was no laughter in them.

"He…did what? Why?"

"I don't know. I think he's in the middle of something dangerous. He told me I needed to avoid you, and when I refused…"

Saria grabbed his hand, suddenly overwhelmed.

"He hurt you because you were spending time with me?"

"That's not the point. I dragged you on this harebrained venture because I wanted to get away from my father—I never thought we could actually save your brother…I just…I'd never seen him like that. I was scared." He sounded angry, maybe at himself.

Saria squeezed his hand with all the strength she had left—not much. Not long ago, she might have felt angry or betrayed, but these weeks spent with Alden had inspired her. He had seen her at her lowest point—soaked in seawater, drowning in tears, hating herself, and admitting that she would have watched him die if it meant she could live—and Alden had done nothing but comfort her. There were more important things in this world than motives and intentions. Sometimes it was just about being a friend.

"You're braver than I'll ever be, Alden, and you've never let me down."

"Until now."

"_Never_," she insisted vehemently. "Even if we die here, you've never let me down. I owe you everything."

There was a long pause, and then he squeezed her hand back with the same lack of strength.

"Your highness, your kindness is overwhelming." He sounded drowsy.

Saria couldn't tell if he was teasing or not, so she changed the subject.

"We have to move."

"But it's so…cozy…" He was struggling to remain coherent, dragging each word through blue lips.

"We'll die if we don't…" Saria found it hard to move her own lips. But he was right, it was suddenly rather warm. Saria couldn't move her limbs, and she couldn't remember if that was bad. Some part of her realized that they were freezing to death, lying side by side, hands clasped, heads touching. She knew that the blanket of snow slowly covering them would be their grave. She understood that if she fell asleep, she would never wake up again. Alden knew all of that too.

Still, neither of them moved. The Forbidden East had claimed them.

Suddenly, the two broken travelers were surrounded by howling dogs and silent figures swathed in dark furs.

"Do you see that?" Saria asked, barely aware that she was even speaking. Her head felt light and fuzzy. "Alden?"

"Mmmm…I thought I was dreaming…" His voice was so faint that Saria wondered if he was even speaking. What if _she_ was dreaming everything? What if the hands pulling her out of the snow and the fur underneath her back and the dogs sniffing at her icy arms were all a dream?

Somewhere in this strange, blurry dream she had lost Alden's hand. Her frosty lips curved into a frown. What if it wasn't a dream, but a nightmare? What if this sudden feeling of loneliness and confusion was the last thing she would experience before she died? What if she was already dead? Saria could no longer wrap her tired, frozen mind around the possibilities, so she fell into unconsciousness—it was warmer there.


	32. Love

"_Even the strongest love can be discouraged by such forces as conflict, fear, and broken promises, but it can't be defeated. Love can never be defeated." _

_--Avalyn, noted Tevouin philosopher_

Kat felt like a thief in the night, stealing through the Tevouin camp on silent footsteps. Her heart was pounding erratically in her ears, drowning out her nervous breaths. Waves of hot excitement raced down her back as she neared the Circle. The sun was beginning to rise, and soon the Circle would be filling with people. She had to hurry. It wasn't hard to pick out the right tent—there were two Tevouins posted outside, guarding the prisoner. Owen. The thought of her brother, so close after so many years, drove Kat forward with a fiery and bold determination.

She marched right up to the guards with unstoppable purpose.

"Astra said I could see him." Astra thought she was still at the Outskirts, but Kat was willing to do a lot more than lie if it meant seeing Owen.

The two men exchanged a hesitant glance.

"Astra told us not to let you see him under any circumstances."

Kat took a deep breath, angry at Astra and everyone else in this bloody camp.

"She changed her mind. Did you honestly think she wouldn't let me see my brother? After all these years?"

"Kat--"

"If you've got a problem, go talk to Astra about it," Kat snapped, praying that he wouldn't. "I'm visiting my brother." She shoved past them without waiting for permission.

Owen was on his knees in the center of the tent, hands tied behind his back, chuckling quietly.

"You haven't changed at all, Kat. I'm relieved."

Kat tackled him in a fierce embrace, fighting back bittersweet tears.

"I missed you," Owen murmured.

Kat started driving her fists into his shoulder.

"If you missed me so much, why didn't you come back?" she cried, swinging at him with adolescent rage. "I thought you were dead! I thought you were…happy somewhere—_without_ me! You dirty, rotten--"

"Kat! Get off me," Owen ordered sternly.

Kat obeyed, unable to hide the warm tears streaming down her cheeks. She took two shallow breaths and threw herself at him in another embrace. For the first time since she heard the news about Owen's deserting, Kat felt like a little girl. She just missed her older brother.

"Untie my hands," he said eventually, too quietly for the guards outside to hear.

"I can't--"

"Kat! I'm your brother, not some vagabond prisoner."

Kat only hesitated for a split second before pulling out her knife and cutting the rope around his wrists. He immediately wrapped her in his arms, and Kat cried for several more minutes, finally able to release the long pent-up emotions in her chest.

"What have they told you?" Owen asked finally.

"Nothing," Kat said angrily. "They weren't even going to tell me you were here." She sat back on her heels and dragged the back of her hand across her moist eyes. "Where have you been?"

"I've been busy."

Kat whacked him on the shoulder.

"That's all you have to say for yourself?" she demanded. "It's been two years! Why didn't you come back?"

"You know they would have never let me--"

"We could have convinced them."

"Kat, listen to me." Owen took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. "I haven't wasted those two years. The monarchy is finally going to fall."

"I don't care about the stupid monarchy!"

"Don't you understand how monumental this is? For the first time in history, one greedy king won't be able to determine the fate of a whole country. The Tevouin freedom will extend to everyone." Owen looked past her to the closed tent flaps and took a deep breath. "You have to promise me something."

"What?"

Owen looked back at her, and in a frightening moment, Kat realized that she didn't recognize the look in his eyes. Two years ago, she had known him better than herself. Now, she barely recognized him at all.

"Kat, I've done some things I'm not particularly proud of, but they had to be done. I don't want you to see those things when you see me. Promise that you won't let anyone tell you about what I did. I don't want you to know."

"Owen--"

"Promise me!"

"Fine, I promise."

"Good." He nodded shortly, looking relieved. "Good. Now what do you say we get out of here?"

"How? They won't let you leave."

"If _you're_ worried about rules, then things have changed more than I thought."

Kat didn't have time to respond before Owen grabbed her knife off the ground, twisted her arm behind her back, and pushed her out the tent.

"Alright, gents," he said calmly to the two stunned guards. "I'm just going to walk out of here, and you're not going to do anything to stop me, agreed?"

The two Tevouins couldn't afford to argue, not as long as the prisoner had a knife blade to his little sister's throat.

"Owen, what are you doing?" Kat demanded, struggling and confused.

"You wouldn't hurt her," one of the guards ventured.

"Maybe, maybe not," Owen snapped. Kat winced as her blood began to trickle down the knife's edge.

Owen started pushing her out of the Circle, toward the pens where the horses were kept.

"I'm sorry, Kat," he said under his breath. "I didn't mean to hurt you, but I have to get back to the castle." When they were out of sight, he released her and started unlatching the gate. Kat grabbed his arm.

"Why are you leaving again?"

"Unfinished business."

"You can't just run away! They'll chase you."

"They won't catch me."

Kat squeezed his arm harder.

"You're just going to leave me here again?"

"Kat, I only came back to ask for support from the Tevouins. They refused, so I'm leaving."

Kat shrank away like he'd stung her.

"Well, I'm sorry to keep you from your _business_ for so long, if that's the only reason you came back." There was venom in her tone.

Owen looked pained and stopped fiddling with the latch to look at her.

"Kat, I didn't mean--"

"No, don't bother trying to explain," she snapped, temper flaring. "By all means, hurry back to your precious--"

"Kat!" Owen gripped her shoulder. "It's not like that. I did want to see you."

"And that's why you're leaving?"

"You know how important you are to me," he was practically pleading. "It's just--"

"You found something more important." Kat pursed her lips and nodded tersely. "I guess two years is longer than I thought." She turned on her heel and walked away. She could hear Owen opening the gate behind her, grabbing a saddle—everything but coming after her. It was all she could do to keep from crying again.

* * *

When Saria woke up, it was not a pleasant experience. She was numb with cold, but still her muscles ached. Her surroundings were blurred with darkness, and keeping her eyes open was a losing battle. She felt as if her head was weighed down with bricks.

It took her several minutes to get her bearings. Her wrists were tied above her head to some sort of wooden beam. That explained the radiating pain through her shoulders and back every time she moved.

"Alden?" she whispered. She meant to say his name louder, but her mouth and throat was so dry that she could barely speak. "Alden?"

It was so dark that she couldn't see more than black, unmoving shapes. The only reply to her imploring was the cold wind whistling through the cracks in the stone structure that she was housed in. Saria breathed in the icy air with slow contemplation and promised herself she wouldn't cry.

The stitched animal hide curtain that served as a door was pushed open, letting in an ocean of blinding white light. Saria cringed and closed her eyes tightly. She heard loud voices speaking in a language that she had never heard before, and then, in a moment of overwhelming relief, she heard Alden.

"I can't understand you!" he cried. "Doesn't anyone speak--"

There was another string of the unknown language, and Alden landed on the ground beside her with a groan and a curse. The curtain swung closed, and they were left alone.

"Alden, are you all right?" she asked in a terrified whisper.

"I'm fine," he muttered, pulling himself slowly to his knees. His wrists were bound tightly behind his back. "What about you?"

"Well, I'm tied up, I have no idea where I am, and—Alden, what's going on?"

"I don't know. I think we're on trial or something. You've been unconscious for a while."

"On trial? Why? What did we do?" She couldn't keep the panic from her voice.

"I don't know. You need to calm down, though." He dragged himself to his feet and tried to peer through the cracks in the wall.

"How can I calm down? We're tied up in a shack somewhere in the Forbidden East!"

"Just relax. We'll make it out of this, I promise."

"How can you say that? We were inches from death in that blizzard. It's a miracle we made it this far! How can you say--"

"Saria, look," Alden dropped back to his knees so he could look her in the eye. "I gave up yesterday, and I shouldn't have. We're _going _to make it out of this."

"How do you know?" she mumbled miserably, wincing at the cold pain gripping her arms and wrists.

Alden smiled grimly.

"I don't, but a little optimism doesn't hurt. Now let's see if we can get you untied."

Even though their situation was still hopeless, Saria felt slightly relieved. At least Alden was back to his normal, inscrutably confident self. That gave her some hope after all.

* * *

Once Owen was led away and the Circle had emptied, Ravyn returned to her tent. Despite the mostly sleepless night, she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep now. After five minutes of staring at the canvas ceiling, she pulled back on her boots and left the tent. The sun was creeping onto the horizon. Because of the late night interruption, the camp would probably sleep later than usual. For now, everything was mostly quiet. Ravyn smiled and nodded in greeting to the few early risers as she passed. She wasn't sure where she was going; she just couldn't sit still with so many thoughts whirling through her head.

Someone brushed past her, walking briskly.

"Excuse me, princess," he mumbled, not slowing down.

Ravyn knew exactly who it was before she even saw him.

"Rowe, wait!" she called, barely keeping a quiver from her voice.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder with an indecipherable expression and kept walking. Ravyn bit her lip at the coldness and squared her shoulders. She had all but accused him of murder—what did she expect? She tried to convince herself that she didn't care, but even as she hurried after him, she knew that deep down she did.

"Rowe, wait," she repeated, matching his quick pace. "I just wanted to apologize."

He didn't reply, didn't slow down—didn't even glance at her. Ravyn swallowed hard and continued.

"I shouldn't have accused you of…I mean, I didn't know that…Well, when Owen admitted to…" She couldn't find the right words to say. She had thought Rowe's big secret was the reason he was locked up in the Asherian dungeons. Her heart had been heavy with all the possibilities, and she had overreacted. After Owen's confession, she knew that Rowe had been in those dungeons through no fault of his own. Even though he was still hiding something from her, she knew she owed it to him to apologize.

Rowe still hadn't slowed down. Ravyn grabbed his arm to stop him.

"I'm just sorry, okay?" she said tiredly when he finally looked at her.

He shrugged as if it were the least important thing in the world.

"Fine," he said without inflection and kept walking. Ravyn wondered if that meant they were square—or as square as they could be.

"Where are you going?" she asked, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

"Away from you." He sounded perfectly unaffected.

Ravyn frowned deeply.

"You know," she said tersely. "You might apologize to me."

He didn't say anything.

"I don't know what you want from me," Ravyn bit off angrily. "I apologized, and I'm not going to bother you about your…secret anymore. The _least_ you could do is--"

"Ravyn, look," Rowe said sharply, stopping and facing her. "As much as I'd love to kiss and make up, Astra asked me to check on Owen, so I'm a little busy right now."

Ravyn almost stepped aside, but something inside made her stand her ground.

"Is this how it's going to be between us now? After all we've been through, we're reduced to petty banter and brush-offs?"

Rowe avoided her demanding gaze and tried to move past her, but Ravyn blocked his path.

"Just talk to me, Rowe! Please!"

"We tried talking, Ravyn," he said quietly, meeting her eyes. "It obviously hasn't worked. It's time for us to move on."

Despite everything that had been said, his words came like a bucket of ice water over her head.

"Is that what you want?" Her mouth felt dry.

Rowe looked troubled for a brief moment, but he nodded firmly. Ravyn looked down to hide her sharp intake of breath. Finally she nodded as well.

"Fine," she said with forced coolness. Rowe walked past her without another word.

Ravyn put her fingers to her lips, remembering the sunrise when she'd first considered that she might be in love. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and walked away, hating the way that Rowe made her heart flutter, even when he was being insufferable. Even when he was gone.

* * *

_(Author's note: Soon I will be back at school! Let's celebrate by eating pastries! And this story has about ten chapters left, just so you know. Two and a half are already written.)_


	33. Madness

"_A king must be afraid of nothing. He must be willing to fight fire with fire, to dive into the fray of battle, to make the necessary sacrifices. He must not fear the madness of power, but rather embrace it. He must embrace the sweet obsession of his single-minded cause. Therein lies greatness—and victory."_

_ -__-The Duties, Responsibilities, and Expectations of Royalty_

Ravyn was beyond confused as she headed for the horse pens. She was angry and miserable and frustrated and offended, all at once. Her head was aching from exhaustion, her eyes were stinging with unshed tears, and all she could think was that she wanted to ride away from here before she ran into someone she knew. She just needed to be alone.

That was why, when she came across Kat in almost the same shape as she was in, Ravyn almost didn't say anything. But when she saw the tears drying on the girl's cheeks, Ravyn knew that something was really wrong.

"Kat, what is it?" she asked, forcing her plethora of emotions to the back of her head.

Kat glanced once over her shoulder, toward the horse pens. For a few seconds, she looked like she was debating something, and then she looked up with clear determination in her glistening eyes.

"Owen escaped," she said impassively. "He's saddling a horse right now."

Ravyn was taken aback. Of all the things she had expected to hear, that wasn't one of them.

"W-we have to tell someone," she managed.

Kat shrugged, the picture of indifference, but there was bitterness behind her eyes. Ravyn turned and ran square into someone.

"Rowe," she said breathlessly. "It's Owen, he--"

"I know. I talked to the men guarding him." Rowe looked exceedingly grim. "I'll take care of it."

"He's got my knife," Kat said, wiping away a trickle of blood from her neck and looking unconcerned that she was selling her brother up the river.

Rowe nodded and gave her a light push.

"Go elsewhere. I'll take care of it."

He took a deep breath and strode around the corner to the horse pens. Owen was in the process of mounting his horse. Upon Rowe's approach, he hesitated for a brief moment, but he finished mounting and grabbed the reins.

"Owen, you're not going to make it out of here," Rowe said carefully. "The other captains are on their way. So is Astra."

"I guess I should be going then," Owen said lightly, putting a hand on the knife in his belt. "Are _you_ going to try and stop me, Roland? You don't even have a weapon." There was an unmistakable smirk on his face.

Rowe set his jaw and kicked the gate shut. The latch fell into place with a decisive click.

"You're going to have to climb down to unlatch the gate, and then we'll see what weapons I have."

Owen snorted, turning his horse to face the opposite fence, a hundred yards away.

"Tempting, but I'll pass." He jammed his heels into his mount's sides, and the mare shot forward, clearing the fence with inches to spare.

Rowe swung himself onto the gate and jumped onto the nearest horse. He gripped the mane with both hands and spurred the stallion forward. Four seconds and he was in hot pursuit.

Even bareback, Rowe was the better rider, and his mount was faster. He closed the distance between them before they reached the last row of tents. Rowe leaned down and yanked the dagger from his boot, coming dangerously close to falling off the galloping horse. He brought his mount alongside Owen's, barely avoiding two swipes of Kat's knife.

Owen didn't look interested in surrendering, so Rowe swung his dagger wide and low. The blade sliced cleanly through the leather saddle straps. Owen's horse suffered a long, thin scratch on its flank. Owen suffered a quick and painful fall to the ground when his horse jerked and the saddle slipped.

Rowe circled his horse around and frowned when he saw that Owen had started running—back into camp.

"Where is he _going_?" Rowe muttered under his breath, taking the time to snatch the abandoned horse's reins. He knew that by now all the captains and half the camp would be swarming, eager to greet the escaped prisoner with lots of sharp weapons. When he rode back into camp, all the commotion was in the Circle. Rowe slid off the horse in time to witness Owen being wrestled to the ground.

"He's got a knife," Rowe called, examining the cut on Owen's horse. Nothing detrimental.

"I've got it." Jacob wrenched the knife from Owen's grip and handed it off to Astra, who looked immensely troubled.

"I don't understand, Owen," she said sharply. "This is madness."

Owen stopped struggling and looked at Astra with a glare that would melt iron.

"If you won't help me with this cause, then you are only hindering it," he said icily. "I can't allow that. The monarchy must fall." He freed his hand from Jacob for a split second, long enough to fling a small object over his head. It landed with a small splash in the watering hole.

"What was that?" Astra demanded, taking a few alarmed steps forward.

Owen just smiled grimly.

"I guess you'll never know, but you can go ahead and drop me off at the castle now. I will gladly stand trial for my crimes." Instead of defeated, he sounded glib.

"Fine, but you will stand trial here first," Astra said decisively, looking down at him with a stern expression.

Owen's face darkened.

"Here?" he snapped.

"You can't have one of our own thrown into the dungeons for two months and expect generous pardon."

Owen seemed visibly shaken, and he tried to sit up, but Jacob kept him lodged firmly in the sand.

"You'll stonewall me," he objected. "Every soul in this wretched place is prejudiced against me."

"I can't help that I'm a favorite," Rowe said with an amused smile.

"That's not what I'm talking about," Owen spit out. "I couldn't save them two years ago. There was nothing for me to do but run—run, and find a way to destroy the monster that caused their deaths."

"Cyrus will pay for his crimes," Astra said quietly.

"Not just Cyrus, the whole system. The entire monarchy."

"Owen, you're obsessed. You can't see the effect--"

Owen groaned like a schoolboy under lecture.

"I don't have time for this," he snapped, effectively breaking Jacob's nose with the heel of his hand. He pushed off the stunned captain and jumped to his feet. A handful of Tevouins immediately descended on him. There was a mass of confusion and shouts and thrown punches. Suddenly, everyone backed up, leaving a wide circle with Owen in the middle. In his hand was a sword he had pulled from someone's sheath.

Two years ago, Owen had been a master swordsman. There was no telling how much he had improved. With the steel in his hand, Owen looked perfectly confident. No one moved.

"You're outnumbered," Astra said cautiously.

"That I am," Owen said with a smile. "But there's no telling how many I'll kill before you kill me, and make no mistake—you _will_ have to kill me. I'm not staying here."

"This doesn't have to be violent," Astra said with the look of someone who is struggling to maintain control. She knew that Owen could easily make good on his threat, and she couldn't let that happen.

"You're right, it doesn't," Owen said lightly. "I'll ride out of here, and you'll never see me again."

Astra hesitated, glancing at all the faces watching her expectantly. She couldn't bear to disappoint them, but she couldn't risk their lives.

"Fine," she said quietly. "Get out."

Weapons were lowered grudgingly, and the Circle split to allow Owen a clear path to his horse. The crisp morning air was unbearably silent as he walked to Rowe and snatched his horse's reins.

"I'll help myself to another saddle," he said, openly smug.

Rowe closed his mouth over a snide comment and looked down. He knew Astra would have his hide if he further enflamed the situation.

"No," Jacob was muttering as he scrambled to his feet. "No! My son and daughter are dead, and _he_ just waltzes out of here?"

Astra sighed and rubbed her temples.

"Jacob, he isn't responsible for their—Jacob, _don't_! Jacob--"

It was too late. Jacob had already grabbed a sword and charged, blinded by rekindled grief. Owen didn't even turn around. There was the nauseating sound of steel penetrating flesh and the sick gasping of a dying man. Owen pulled his sword free and turned, watching Jacob's last breaths without emotion.

A moment of stunned, aching silence hung over the assembly like a death shroud. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman began shrieking. It was as if the painful cries carried an electric current that jolted the frozen crowd into action. Suddenly the Circle was a swarm of shouts and clashing steel.

The two horses panicked, and Rowe let them go, focusing on yanking as many armed captains away from Owen as he could—without getting a stray sword in his gut for the trouble. Astra was shouting over the pandemonium, trying to draw the incensed captains away from the fight, which was rapidly turning into a slaughter. Four Tevouins were already on the ground, wounded or worse.

"Back off!" she cried, grabbing a rebounding man by his shoulder and pushing him behind her. She moved further into the din, dragging her men back one by one. "Get _back_!"

Finally her commands seemed to reach some ears, and the Tevouins began to step back. Owen stood his ground on the body-strewn sand, covered in blood that wasn't his own. He hadn't even broken a sweat.

"That was a mistake, Owen," Astra said with forced calmness, not looking at him. Her hands were trembling. "You didn't have to kill Jacob."

"You saw the man," Owen said casually, observing the edge of his stained sword. "He was blind with rage—out for blood. The kill was self-defense."

"You know as well as I that you could have disarmed him easily without spilling blood!" Astra cried, losing her self-control. There were tears building in her eyes and anger mounting in her voice.

Owen seemed to consider that for a few seconds, finally he shrugged.

"You're right. I was just sick of him."

Astra threw up her hand to stop the remaining captains from charging. A wave of fierce muttering rippled through the crowd, and Astra knew she wouldn't be able to hold them back for long. She was in the worst position possible. More than anything she wanted to let them fight for some smidgen of vengeance, but she knew that despite the intense skill every single one of her captains possessed, many of them would be dead before the battle ended. She couldn't sign their death warrants.

"What are you doing, Owen?" she asked, holding her composure with admirable tenacity.

"I'm just trying to finish what I started. The monarchy must pay for its atrocities."

"You know I can't let you leave. Not now."

He shrugged.

"Fine, but the terms are still the same. You're going to have to kill me, because I won't be kept prisoner."

"Think about your sister!"

"I never stopped," Owen snapped, bringing his sword up. "Let's get this over with."

Before Astra could say another word, the remaining captains and several other Tevouins charged. The Circle became a slaughtering ground once more. Rowe was the only captain who had yet to join the fray, due to the fact that he had no sword. He came up beside Astra and remedied the situation by pulling her sword from its sheath.

"Mind if I borrow this?"

Astra grabbed his wrist.

"Yes, I _mind_," she said shortly. "I need it." Her voice was heavy but resolute.

"No offense, Astra—you're the best teacher there is—but when was the last time you did anything but teach swordplay?"

"I'm not going to stand by while--"

"Astra, _they_ need you." Rowe nodded in the direction of the other luminaries, who were in a tight knot several yards away, muttering worriedly—and uselessly—amongst themselves. "You keep this camp from falling apart."

Astra considered for a moment, but finally nodded tightly and loosened her grip on Rowe.

"When did you get sense?" she murmured. "Rowe, just promise me that--"

"Don't worry," he said with his usual cocky smile. "I can beat him."

Astra nodded again and went to join her fellow luminaries. Rowe took a deep breath and whirled to grab Ravyn's arm.

"I _am_ sorry," he said into her ear.

"Why are you apologizing now?" Ravyn asked anxiously, not liking how he said it—as if it was the last thing he would ever say to her.

Rowe glanced once in Owen's direction, where the battle was reaching a fierce and bloody climax.

"Because I can't beat him." He turned to go. Ravyn pulled him back.

"Then why are you fighting him?" she cried.

"Because I _can_ wound him. Then someone else will at least have a chance."

"Rowe, I…" She suddenly couldn't find the right words to say. "Good luck," she finished weakly.

Rowe offered her a halfhearted smile and disappeared into the fray.


	34. Time

"_Time is like ale—there's never enough."_

_--The poet Ettne_

Despite the wave of Tevouins coming at him, Owen remained unscathed. He was truly an artist with his steel, parrying attacks from all sides with remarkable speed and agility. If one of his opponents flashed an inch of unprotected flesh for even a second, Owen's sword found it without hesitation. The bodies were piling up, and the Tevouins were beginning to fall back.

Rowe moved through the skirmish with ardent purpose, flexing his grip on Astra's sword and watching Owen with a trained eye, trying to read any weaknesses. There were none that he could see. Owen disarmed his current opponent, and Rowe pushed the man aside before Owen could serve a death blow. His steel met Rowe's instead, and the resonating clash seemed to silence all else.

"It's about time you joined the party," Owen said with a smirk.

"We don't have to do this," Rowe replied, taking the defensive as Owen delivered several lightning blows.

Owen suddenly fell back into a defensive stance, his eyes flicking over Rowe critically.

"If you're having second thoughts, you'd better back off now, because I won't hesitate to kill you."

"I know," Rowe said quietly, not backing down.

Owen smiled.

"Good, Roland, then let's have your best."

"Stop calling me that." Rowe fired off five successive strikes, each one coming closer than the last to penetrating Owen's impassable defense.

Owen managed to fend him off and then unleashed his own barrage of razor sharp attacks. The last one sent Rowe sprawling to the ground—with his sword several feet away. Owen strode forward, but didn't strike. Something wordless passed between the two swordsmen.

"Pick up your sword," Owen ordered. "I won't kill you unarmed."

Rowe didn't hesitate to roll to his feet, grabbing his sword as he stood. The second he was upright, the fierce duel continued. The early morning sun glinted off their swords, and the sand flew around them like a whirlwind. The second time Rowe hit the ground, he managed to keep his sword, but another captain dove in to block Owen's downward strike.

"No!" Rowe cried, but it was too late. Owen's sword made quick work of the man. Rowe scrambled to his feet, cursing roundly.

"Stay _back_!" he shouted, glancing around the crowd of anxious, familiar faces. "Stay--"

Owen attacked again, and Rowe was forced to focus on staying alive. He would gain ground only to lose it again, and his sleep-deprived body was slowly losing vigor. Owen remained unwounded, and Rowe knew he was running out of time.

Finally Owen left an opening, and Rowe grasped the chance. He dove forward, hitting the sand in a shoulder roll. He came up behind Owen and swung his sword backwards. He was aiming for the tendons on his ankles, to immobilize him. He managed to land a deep gash across Owen's left calf. Owen staggered forward, and Rowe jumped to his feet. He brought up his sword to finish it, but a severe pain radiating from his shoulder almost made him drop his weapon. He realized then that Owen had sliced open his shoulder when he made the pass.

Owen turned around, limping and angry. Rowe was forced to switch his sword to his left hand, and he knew with sudden clarity that this would be over very soon. The last time he'd fought left-handed, he was disarmed in two minutes.

Owen managed it in thirty seconds. Rowe's sword went flying, and Owen punched him in the jaw with a terrible vengeance. Rowe kept his feet, so Owen rammed his hilt into the side of Rowe's face.

Rowe's world exploded into nauseating pain, and his vision darkened considerably. He barely registered Owen's boot contacting his chest and the ground contacting his back. For a few brief moments, unconsciousness claimed him, but he knew he couldn't succumb. Someone else would step in to save his life, and Owen would simply kill them first. The gash on his calf wasn't enough of a handicap.

Rowe roused himself in time to experience Owen ramming a foot into his ribs. Rowe groaned and blinked involuntary tears from his eyes. He vaguely recognized two Tevouins preparing to step in, and he threw up his good arm.

"Stop." He tried to shout, but it came out as little more than a mumble. "Not…yet…"

For some reason he was finding it hard to breathe. He realized that Owen was pressing down on his chest with his right heel. He saw the flash of Owen's steel and knew he had to act quickly. There was only one thing to do, but he knew it was going to hurt him more than Owen.

Rowe groaned again, to prepare himself for the impending pain, and kicked up his leg. He hooked it around Owen's and rolled rapidly to the right. Owen hit the ground next to him with a grunt and curse.

Rowe's ribs were throbbing where Owen had kicked him, and his head felt like it was on fire. He sucked in a breath of air and fumbled for Owen's sword, but Owen had already snatched it up, so Rowe opted for a different strategy. He slammed his elbow into the man's temple and pushed away.

He staggered to his feet for several seconds before stumbling back into the sand, unable to catch himself. His right shoulder hurt so badly that it was practically useless. He could hear Owen behind him, standing up. He could hear the footsteps in the sand, practically deafening. He imagined the sunlight dancing along the sword's edge and wondered how many more Tevouins would die before Owen finally got the chance to kill him. He wondered if dying would hurt.

"Owen, that's _enough_." Kat pushed through the crowd and stepped between her brother and Rowe. She looked around at the cooling corpses of her friends and comrades. A dark frown came over her features, and an angry shiver raced down her spine. "What's going on?"

"Kat, get out of here," Owen snapped, visibly shaken.

"I'm not going anywhere until you explain--"

"This isn't something you would understand. _Leave._"

Kat's frown sharpened. She bent down to pick up Rowe's sword.

"You're obviously out for a fight," she said, weighing the hilt in her hand. "That's something I can understand."

"You're not going to fight me," Owen replied evenly.

"You don't know her very well," Rowe muttered, rolling painfully onto his back.

"Shut up, Rowe," Kat ordered irately, and then to Owen: "He's right."

"Fine," Owen bit off. "But I won't fight you."

"You'll fight my friends—why not me?" Kat was clearly incensed, forcing herself not to look at the death around her.

"You're my family," Owen replied weakly.

"They're _mine_!" Kat shouted, and dropped into an offensive stance.

"I won't fight you," Owen said resolutely, throwing down his sword.

Relief settled over the crowd like a cool blanket, forming a stark contrast to the sweltering sun. The sudden tranquility made what happened next seem surreal—perhaps the reason why no one reacted immediately.

A woman, biting back sobs, broke past the arms that were comforting her and ran forward. Her gait was unsteady; her grip on the dagger in her hand was clumsy and unskilled; there were tears blurring her vision. She didn't stand a chance—except that Owen had dropped his weapon and remained distracted by his sister.

Jacob's grieving widow thrust the dagger repeatedly into Owen's back and shrieked curses at him until she was dragged away, sobbing hysterically.

A sick numbness crept over Kat, starting with her fingertips. The sword in her hand fell to the sand, and when the numbness reached her legs she fell to her knees beside her brother. Her throat tightened with disbelief until she could no longer breathe, and all she could do was roll her brother onto his side with trembling hands.

His breathing was raspy and labored. When Kat slid her hand into his, he didn't even have the strength to squeeze it.

"Owen," she said brokenly. "Owen, wait…"

He summoned his last bit of strength and put his hand on the back of her head, studying her face with his dark eyes.

"What did they tell you?" he asked, struggling for each word.

Kat paused, biting her lip until tears sprang into her eyes.

"Nothing," she whispered. "They didn't tell me anything."

Visible tension lifted from Owen, and he relaxed.

"Good," he murmured. He began coughing violently. There was blood.

Kat just squeezed her eyes shut, keeping her mouth closed tightly over the sobs in her throat. Owen trailed his fingers down her dry cheeks, as if trying to memorize her face.

"You _have_ changed," he mumbled. Then he closed his eyes, released a ragged breath, and died.

Kat stood up, shaking from head to toe, but she didn't cry. Astra was the first to move towards her.

"Kat," she said tentatively, putting a warm hand on the girl's shoulder.

"It's all right," Kat said tightly. "Dobbs told me everything—what Owen did to Rowe, what he tried to do to Ravyn and Drake. Everything."

Astra looked down at Owen's prone body.

"You told him--"

"I couldn't tell him that I know about the things he did—not after everything he did to keep me from finding out. He doesn't deserve that. Besides, I promised." Kat looked toward the cloudless sky, visibly holding back tears.

"Kat, it's okay to cry," Astra said gently.

"I'm just going to go to the Outskirts," Kat mumbled, breaking away from Astra and heading out of the Circle.

Astra sighed heavily and started issuing weary orders. At first glance, there were twelve dead. That meant a lot of graves to dig, and a lot of families to console. From the heavy weeping on all sides, she guessed that many had witnessed their loved one's demise. The sheer enormity of the crowd surrounding her suggested that most of the camp had witnessed the morning's gruesome events.

In all the turmoil, she almost forgot about Rowe.

He was still on the ground where he'd landed. Ravyn was on her knees beside him. Astra just shook her head and smiled to herself—she had forgotten what it felt like to be young and in love. She would wait until later to yell at Rowe for almost getting himself killed.

Ravyn grabbed Rowe's hand without thinking and leaned over him, trying to see how bad the damage was. The side of his face was swollen and livid.

"You look terrible," she said with a frown.

"What a coincidence," Rowe mumbled. "I feel terrible."

"Can you stand up?"

"Sure, but I just thought I'd take a nap--"

"Rowe!"

"I'm fine! Just…help me."

Ravyn sighed and draped his left arm around her neck so she could help him stand. He managed to find his feet, but was forced to lean on Ravyn.

"You can't even support your own weight!" Ravyn exclaimed.

"You try having your ribs kicked in and your shoulder sliced open and your face smashed in and--" He dipped dangerously to the side. "Never mind. I'm too dizzy to argue with you."

"We have to find Naima."

"She's not in camp."

"Well, where is she?"

"I don't know, but if she was _here_, she would have been right in the middle of all this, objecting until her head exploded." Rowe pulled away from Ravyn to hold his throbbing head, and subsequently collapsed to the ground.

He winced and groaned, holding his aching ribs with his left hand.

"Just so you know," he gasped when Ravyn dropped down beside him. "I'm about to black out. Try not to make a scene."

"Rowe, you could have died," Ravyn said exasperatedly, wondering why that didn't seem to bother him.

He moaned as the pain crashed into him again, like waves on the seashore.

"If it makes you feel better, I was fairly certain I was going to die. So all this writhing in pain is actually a pleasant surprise."

"Why would that make me feel better?"

"I don't know, but the more I talk, the closer I get to unconsciousness. I'd rather get it over with."

"You're delirious," Ravyn said ruefully.

"No, I'm not." He winced and gritted his teeth against another wave of pain. "But while we're being civil, would you like to pick up where we left off earlier?"

"Where was that?"

"I believe we were about to kiss and make up. You already did enough making up for the both of us, so…"

Ravyn sat back on her heels and sighed.

"You're delirious."

"A little," Rowe conceded. "To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what's being said." His words were growing slurred and drawn out.

"So if I called you a stubborn, self-centered cad, then there would be no immediate repercussions?"

"Something like that." He chuckled softly and finally dropped into painless unconsciousness.

* * *

Despite their best efforts, Saria and Alden couldn't untie their restraints. Alden finally sat down next to her, his heavy breath coming out in small white clouds that faded into the dark, chilled air.

"How are you holding out?" he asked, rotating his shoulders in a vain attempt to ease the tense pain.

"I think my arms are going to fall off," Saria muttered miserably. She had been in the same position on her knees with her hands tied over her head for hours. The pain was reaching the point of excruciating. "Is there anyone outside?"

"I don't think so."

"You should go," Saria said quietly. "You can make it out of here."

"As touching as your self-sacrificing notion is, there's no way I'm leaving you behind."

"Alden--"

"No! I'm not leaving."

"There's no reason for you to stay here!" Saria cried.

"_You're_ here."

Saria fell silent, overwhelmed by the plethora of emotions in her chest.

"I think I hear someone," Alden said, straightening up.

The curtain over the doorway swung open, and two men came in talking rapidly in their native language. Their skin was dark and swathed in leather and fur to protect against the cold. One of them wielded a long, pale knife.

Saria kept her jaw clenched tightly as her hands were untied from the wooden beam and retied behind her back. Her arms and shoulders were aching steadily, and all she really wanted to do was cry.

Alden tried to speak to them, but he was cut off sharply when the man waved the knife at his nose. Apparently they were supposed to stay quiet. The other man pulled Saria to her feet and pushed her toward the door.

"Where are they taking us?" she asked Alden in a fearful whisper as they emerged into the blinding white sunlight. The snow around them seemed to be melting, though the air was still frosty with a winter chill.

"We're probably going to the center of the village. They brought me there earlier for the trial."

Saria looked around and noticed for the first time that they were standing on the outskirts of a village. The stone structures in the distance resembled the one they had been kept in—small and rough, roofed with a patchwork of fur and thatch, and covered in ice.

The wagon in front of them looked like it had been constructed from driftwood. A massive black ox was hitched to the front, huffing impatiently. One of the men climbed into the driving seat and took the reins. The other spoke sharply to Alden and Saria, gesturing to the wagon. When they didn't immediately catch on, he grabbed Saria around the waist and hoisted her ungracefully into the back.

Saria wailed in protest and floundered to pull herself upright—a task made difficult by her snow-dampened dress and bound hands. Alden scrambled up behind her before the man could do the same to him. The man jumped in and sat across from them, keeping his knife in a tight grip.

"What's going to happen to us?" Saria whispered to Alden, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.

"I don't know, but it's going to be okay."

"You don't know that!"

"Stop panicking."

"I'm not panicking." Saria took a few deep breaths and glanced up once at the man seated across from her. He was looking to his right, ignoring them completely. The ivory knife in his hand was long and roughly-hewn, and the sight of it sent chills down Saria's back.

"Where are you taking us?" she asked finally, tired of watching the white landscape and listening to the creaking of the wooden wagon.

"Saria, they can't understand you," Alden said tiredly.

"Where. Are. You. Taking. Us?" Saria practically yelled, ignoring Alden completely.

The man finally looked up and said something in his own language. He must have guessed what Saria was asking, because he answered by drawing his finger across his throat rapidly, and then pointing at the two of them in turn.

Saria gasped. Alden sat straight up.

"Surely there's some misunderstanding," he said to Saria, trying to comfort her, but he didn't sound sure at all.

The expression on the man's face spoke volumes, though, and Saria knew there was no misunderstanding.

"They're going to kill us," she whispered, unable to control the tremor in her voice. "What are we going to do?"

Alden didn't have an answer, and suddenly the village center seemed entirely too near.

Saria didn't look up for the rest of the trip. She was drowning in the same sensation that she had felt on her wedding day—the feeling that time was slipping through her fingers like sand. The feeling that her life was over before it had really begun.

She thought about Alden and knew without looking that his face was taut with that grim determination she had grown to depend on. She realized abruptly that he was one of a kind, perhaps the only person in the world who would have come this far with her. If it weren't for him, she would have whittled her life away in the castle. She would have never thought to search for a cure to Jackson's ailments. She would have never ridden a horse, dared the Fairden Forest, braved the wild sea, or crossed the Great Divide. Perhaps her life really _had _begun, and it was all because of him.

The wagon jolted to a stop, and Saria suddenly wanted to thank him, before it was too late.

She leaned over and planted a brief kiss on his cheek, feeling her cheeks flame even as she did so. Neither of them spoke. Saria glanced sideways at him, and smiled because he was. She was so preoccupied that it took her a few seconds to realize that she was being pulled down from the wagon.

"It's going to be okay," Alden said immediately, hardly convincing.

Saria swallowed hard and nodded as she was dragged backwards. She tried to move her feet, but they felt numb. She was aware of people all around her, staring in silence. A gnawing emptiness had settled into the pit of her stomach, and all she could think about was Jackson, lying on his death bed an ocean away, waiting for her to come home.

Her captor jerked her around and pushed down on her shoulders, forcing her to her knees. Several yards ahead of her, a chiseled stone sullied with dried blood sat amidst the melting snow. Beside it stood the masked executioner, flexing his grip on a long saber carved from ivory. Saria suddenly felt nauseous.

Someone brushed past her, and she glanced up in time to glimpse Alden's face before he looked toward the execution block. His steps faltered at the sight of it, and the man pushed him forward. Alden fell to his knees in front of the stone, coming face to face with the crusted blood of past victims.

"No," Saria whimpered, trying to scramble to her feet. Someone pushed her back down. Her heart stalled indefinitely, and she knew with painful clarity that the only thing worse than being beheaded by that crudely-carved sword was watching Alden suffer the fate first.

Alden felt a tremor work its way through his body, and he suddenly couldn't remember how to breathe. Saria had started crying. He turned his head toward her and caught her eye, but he couldn't conjure up a reassuring smile. A strong hand grabbed the side of his face and pressed his cheek against the icy stone. Saria's wide, frightened eyes were still locked with his. He wished she would look away.

For some reason he had always imagined a death more fulfilling than this.

A loud voice rang out in the silence, and the hand on his face lifted. Alden squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if it would hurt. The moments dragged on, and he felt as if his heart was precariously suspended on a string.

The sword never fell.

He hazarded a glance toward Saria, still anticipating the sound of wind whistling on ivory. Saria was breathing heavily and rapidly, looking around with a confused frown. Tentatively, Alden lifted head, half-expecting his face to be shoved back onto the stone. The loud voices above him were arguing in that inscrutable language.

An aging woman, her dark face inset with austere wrinkles, dropped down in front of him. Her liquid brown eyes searched his face for several seconds before she spoke.

"You are from west lands?" Her voice was heavily-accented.

Alden was so taken aback at hearing the common tongue that all he could do was nod.

"What is the purpose of your coming?" The old woman's eyes were so piercing that he felt as if she was looking into his soul and finding the answers to her questions herself.

It took Alden several moments to find his voice.

"Her brother is sick." He jerked his head toward Saria. "We read that you have cures here."

"There is medicine in west lands." She didn't look as if she believed him.

"He's been treated by the best doctors, and nothing has worked." Alden licked his chapped lips, trying to sound less terrified. "We're his last chance."

The old woman regarded him carefully for what felt like an eternity. Finally, she nodded.

"You speak truth. You will come with me now." She rose to her feet and spoke persuasively to her fellow villagers. They argued at first, but were finally convinced by what she had to say.

Someone untied his hands, and Alden climbed shakily to his feet, trying to wrap his head around what was happening. As soon as she was freed, Saria practically tackled him in an embrace.

"Told you it was going to be okay," Alden said with a weary smile.

"One day I'll start believing you," Saria returned, forcing her breathing to calm. She glanced toward their savior. The old woman was in a deep discussion with their two captors. "Now what?"

Alden shrugged, massaging his chafed wrists.

"Don't look at me; I'm making this up as I go along." He smiled at her and winked.

Saria sighed, still exasperated by how quickly he could rebound from near death, but for some reason she couldn't suppress a smile of her own.


	35. Mistakes

"_As humans, we fear mistakes, when really we should be embracing them…"_

_ --Avalyn, noted Tevouin philosopher_

While all hell was breaking loose in the Tevouin camp, Naima was trying to convince Drake to pet a cat.

"C'mon," she said, holding the cat nose to nose with Drake and smiling winningly.

"I'd rather not," Drake said with raised eyebrows, taking a polite step backwards.

Naima hugged the feline close and planted a kiss on his pink nose, as if to soothe the rejection.

"You're going to catch a disease," Drake pointed out flatly.

"Nonsense. He's quite harmless."

They were standing in the grassy field on the edge of the desert that Naima had shown Drake weeks ago. After the night's events, Drake had ridden to the quiet valley in search of some peace of mind. Instead, he'd found Naima using a sleepy gray cat as a pillow while she talked intently to the pale sky. She hadn't seemed surprised to see him, but then, Naima never seemed surprised by anything.

"Why don't you like him?" she asked, stroking the cat's velveteen fur.

"It's not personal. I don't like any stray animals."

The cat meowed indignantly—a pitiful, croaking sound—and glared at Drake through amber eyes. Drake's brow furrowed in concentration as he remembered the gray stallion with similar eyes that they had encountered weeks ago in this same field. He remembered Naima explaining the fey's inability to communicate vocally.

He looked from the cat to Naima.

"Is that a…" he began tentatively, unwilling to finish the question—that would mean that he was buying into this lunacy of invisible creatures fluttering around.

Naima's grin widened, and she winked.

"Now you're catching on, darling."

Drake sighed heavily and sat down on the grass. He had only slept a few hours the night before, and it was beginning to catch up with him. Naima settled down beside him, tucking her legs beneath her and plopping the cat on Drake's lap. Drake exchanged a long glare with the animal and finally rubbed his back, albeit grudgingly. The feline immediately began purring and curled up for a nap.

"He likes you!" Naima beamed delightedly.

"Lucky me," Drake muttered, but the simple act of stroking the soft fur calmed his nerves, so he continued. He and Naima sat in silence for a long while, watching the sun climb slowly in the sky. Finally Naima spoke.

"Well, why don't you talk to her about it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your sister. Sitting here worrying about her isn't going to do any good."

Drake frowned.

"How did you--"

"Why don't you talk to her?" Naima hugged her right knee to her chest and rested her cheek on it so she could stare questioningly at Drake.

Drake looked down at the cat.

"There hasn't really been time," he mumbled, unwilling to meet Naima's gaze.

"You could make time."

"Things have been different lately."

"Different?"

Drake shifted uncomfortably. The cat lifted his head and hissed at the interruption, but he resumed his nap almost immediately.

"I'm a fish out of water here, but Ravyn…" Drake paused, searching for the right words. "I think Ravyn is finally home."

"And that worries you?"

"I'm worried that she doesn't need me anymore." He sighed. "I _know_ she doesn't need me anymore."

"Well, she's not a child. She's an intelligent, capable young woman."

"Do you think I don't know that?"

"But you'll always be her brother, Drake." Naima smiled gently. "That's something all the growing up in the world won't cure her of."

"Do me a favor and remind her of that," Drake grimaced ruefully. "She's been doing her best to cut the ties. I haven't been able to get more than a four-word conversation out of her for days."

Naima slapped his shoulder.

"Honestly, Drake! Have you no insight into the female mind? It's obvious that she's been preoccupied lately."

"Preoccupied with what?"

Naima giggled.

"Well, spring _is _the season for lovers."

All color drained from Drake's face.

"Excuse me?"

Naima giggled again and tousled Drake's hair playfully.

"How many times do I have to tell you to loosen up? Rowe may be cavalier, but he has more sense than he lets on. I've rubbed off on him over the years."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Drake combed his fingers through his hair irritably.

"Relax. She doesn't need a father anymore, Drake. She needs a brother—a brother who can let her live her own life."

"And if she makes a mistake?"

"You act as if that's a bad thing."

Drake regarded her carefully for a few moments, wondering for the hundredth time how he'd spent a month and a half around this woman and still didn't understand her.

"So, do you ever make mistakes?" he asked quietly.

Naima's smile faltered barely.

"Well, I'm only human."

"I would never have guessed." Drake glanced at the facsimile of a cat in his lap. "_I've _never met a human who sees things quite like you do."

"So, if I'm not a lunatic, then I must be otherworldly? Isn't it possible that I'm just a normal girl who happens to pay attention?"

"I suppose it's possible," Drake said slowly. He leaned in slightly as if confiding a secret. "But I still think you're a lunatic."

Naima detected the faint, teasing smile on his lips and grinned.

"Well, you're listening to me, so what does that make you?" She jabbed her finger into his chest and when he glanced down, she flicked his nose. "Are you ever going to stop falling for that?"

Drake rolled his eyes and lay back in the grass, watching the ethereal clouds as he stroked the cat absently. As he pushed his worries about Ravyn to the back of his mind, the events of the evening prior washed back into his consciousness, though he had come here to forget them. He took a few moments to mull over the implications of everything that had happened—wondering if Owen's capture meant it was safe to return to Silvern, or if Grey would be waiting there with more treason up his sleeve.

He realized that his hatred towards his former mentor had subsided, and any animosity toward Owen was hard to summon. It was as if the concerns of his past life had been swallowed by the vastness of the desert. He recalled Ravyn saying that maybe this was where they were supposed to be, and for the first time the thought didn't feel foreign to him. He certainly didn't want to stay in the Great Desert forever, but he couldn't help but think that, for now, everything was as it should be.

Naima giggled softly, and Drake glanced at her. She was staring at the sky with a balmy smile on her lips, nodding lazily as if the dazzling blue was whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Drake _really_ didn't understand her, and surprisingly, that didn't infuriate him like it did when they first met.

She had become an engaging mystery—a sort of alluring promise that, despite reality's bleakness, there was always something else to be found—something bright beyond the shadows, something more real than reality, if it could ever be obtained. The very notion was inscrutable to Drake, but it didn't unsettle him as much as it would have a month ago. He was changing, and he could _feel_ it happening, which made it all the more exciting.

The cat in his lap hissed suddenly and broke away. Drake sat up and watched with a faint frown as the feline sprinted east.

"Don't worry," Naima said airily. "He'll be back when you need him. Right now someone else does."

A heavy southern wind picked up, blowing Naima's brown locks across her face. She frowned sharply and jumped to her feet.

"Something's wrong?" Drake stood up beside her.

"At camp. I'm not sure what, but we need to go." She whistled for her mare. "Honestly, I leave for a couple hours, and everything falls apart. Rowe probably has something to do with it." She sighed exasperatedly and mounted.

"Weren't you gloating earlier about his good sense?" Drake asked pointedly, mounting his own horse.

"I said he has more sense than he lets on. That doesn't change the fact that he is reckless, unaware of his own limits, and prone to leaving disasters in his wake."

"Great, now I feel completely confident about letting Ravyn make her own decisions."

Naima just smiled tightly and nudged her horse into a gallop.

* * *

Saria felt suffocated by the hundreds of unfamiliar pungent smells assaulting her nostrils. The small homestead that she and Alden were sitting in was reminiscent of some sort of archaic hunting lodge. The walls were lined with furs of all shapes and sizes—some came from animals that Saria didn't recognize. A smoldering fire in the middle of the single room sent lazy trails of smoke through the small hole in the thatch roof.

Saria sat restlessly on the ground, as close to Alden as comfort and her surviving sense of propriety would allow. Above their heads dangled an eerie assortment of strange plants, starched bones, and primeval charms that swayed in rhythm with the whistling breeze. Saria felt swallowed whole by the strange surroundings, and it sent shivers down her spine.

"What do you think is going to happen to us?" Saria asked in a tremulous voice. They had been ushered into the hut and left alone almost an hour ago, and Saria's anxiety was getting the best of her.

"Hmmm?" Alden mumbled drowsily.

Saria looked at him and realized he had rested his chin into his cupped hand and was dozing peacefully. She envied his ability to do so—the last time she had rested peacefully seemed an eternity ago.

The animal hide hanging over the doorway was pushed aside, and the hunched form of the old woman stood in dark contrast to the glaring white sunlight.

"Apology for time," she said. Her grasp of the common tongue was obviously fragmented. "You are warm?"

"Yes, thank you," Alden said, suddenly awake. "And thank you for...earlier." He nodded toward the daylight behind her, where the execution block sat in grim repose.

The old woman dipped her head sagely and stepped inside. Before the curtain fell back into place, a dark shape zipped into the hut, darting past the old woman and diving gracefully into Saria's lap.

The gray cat croaked out his peculiar meow and pressed his head insistently under Saria's chin.

"Sure, show up when all the danger is past," Alden muttered under his breath, exchanging a glare with the cat and earning himself a hiss.

Saria opened her mouth in preparation to defend her feline friend, but the old woman broke in.

"They fear presence of death," she said, her tone almost reverent as she stared into the cat's amber eyes. Her gaze snapped suddenly to Saria.

"You…you speak with _kiosi_?"

"I…what?" Saria asked in confusion.

"_Kiosi_." The old woman waved her arms about wildly, as if that could illustrate her meaning.

"She means the realm of the fey." The curtain swung open again and another figure ducked into the room. It was a young woman, tall and regal in her soft fur and leather apparel. Her jet black hair fell over her shoulders and down her back in a glorious cascade, framing her high cheekbones and smooth jaw perfectly. Her skin was the color of rich chocolate, her eyes were the color of summer blueberries, and she was maybe the most beautiful person Saria had ever seen—rivaled only by the lady of the Fairden wood.

Apparently Alden shared her admiration, because he shot to his feet in a hasty show of respect. His head hit a mass of the ceiling ornaments, sending several of them to the ground.

The elegant young woman only smiled slightly and gestured with a fluid sweep of her hand.

"Please, sit. You are a guest here."

Alden complied, eyes never leaving her face. Saria stared indignantly at Alden—he had never risen to his feet when _she _entered a room—but he currently seemed unaware that she still existed.

"My grandmother wishes to know if you are able to speak with the fey." The young woman helped her elder sit on the floor and gazed meaningfully at the cat in Saria's lap.

"He's just a cat," Saria said slowly. "Aren't the fey those invisible creatures from fairy tales?"

The young woman's dark brow furrowed slightly.

"Fey-ry tales?" she asked, trying to shape the word in vain. "I don't know of fey-ry tales, but this animal is a fey."

"He is bound to you," her grandmother said to Saria. "Why?"

"I don't…I don't understand," Saria answered, flustered as she looked at the gray cat. He stared back at her unyieldingly for a few moments, and then began to lick his paw unconcernedly.

The old woman and her granddaughter conferred briefly in their native tongue, and the younger nodded firmly.

"You two must be bound with destiny. No accident that my grandmother saved you."

"Who _are_ you?" Saria asked.

"I am called Runa, and my grandmother—Suri." Runa settled onto the ground as well. "We have been away, gathering herbs, and I am sorry that we did not return sooner to aid you. What are you called, please?"

"I'm Alden, and this is Saria. Tell us, how did you learn the common tongue?" Alden leaned forward in earnest, apparently riveted by curiosity, but Saria suspected that his enthusiasm was kindled more by Runa's beauty than anything else.

"A man of your tongue came here two years ago. He lived among us for one year and many of your months. My grandmother and I taught him of our ways, and he taught us of his language. I learned very quickly." Runa beamed, obviously proud of her accomplishment.

Suri scowled in contrast and muttered under her breath in her own tongue. Runa answered her back sharply, and a tension rose between them.

"We aren't the first ones to make it here from the West?" Saria asked, too busy straightening her own thoughts to notice the sudden friction.

"He was the first," Runa replied, pulling away from her grandmother's glare.

"What was his name?" Alden prompted, observing Suri's cross expression curiously.

"He was called Owen."

* * *

Naima rode her horse directly to the Circle and slid off before the mare had even stopped. She jogged to the clump of palms by the watering hole, where Ravyn was kneeling beside Rowe.

"How long has he been unconscious?" Naima asked, dropping down beside Ravyn and digging around in her side satchel.

"I don't know, maybe an hour?" Ravyn sounded flustered. "I'm sorry—I didn't know what else to do. We pulled him to the shade, and I bandaged his arm, but it's still bleeding. I just--"

"You did fine, darling," Naima said soothingly, feeling Rowe's forehead with the back of her hand. "Tell me what happened."

Ravyn launched into a halted rendition of the morning's events, sounding on the verge of tears until Drake knelt down beside her and took her hand comfortingly. Naima nodded absently, showing no reaction to the terrible tale as she painstakingly peeled away the blood-soaked bandages on Rowe's shoulder.

"Is he all right?" Ravyn asked anxiously, wincing as Naima dumped the contents of her waterskin on his wound.

"He'll be fine. What are they doing?" Naima nodded toward the two boys at the far end of the watering hole. They were taking turns diving into the deep blue depths and coming up empty-handed.

"Astra asked them to find what Owen threw in the water. I doubt they're going to find it, and the Council warned everyone to boil the water thoroughly before drinking it, in case it was poison." Ravyn seemed largely unconcerned about it—all of her nervous attention was on Rowe's wound as Naima cleaned it.

Naima exchanged a furtive glance with Drake and decided it would be best to distract her.

"Ravyn, dear, could you fetch some fresh bandages?"

Ravyn nodded and ran off. Naima applied some salve to the deep gash and glanced at Drake.

"I'll have to stitch it up. Can you hold him still?"

"He's unconscious."

"I have a feeling he's going to wake up, and I don't have anything to dull the pain." Naima located a needle in her bag and threaded it deftly. "I'd rather do this before Ravyn returns."

"Fine." Drake leaned forward and pushed firmly on Rowe's elbow and collarbone. Naima didn't hesitate to thrust the needle into his skin. Rowe jerked awake immediately, crying out in pain.

"What the—Naima? What are you—" Rowe cried out again and struggled to sit up.

"Stop moving, Rowe," Naima ordered. "If I don't stitch this up, you'll be lucky to use your arm ever again."

That settled him down enough for Naima to finish her work.

"What happened?" Rowe asked through gritted teeth as Naima tied off the thread.

"You lost a fight," she answered sharply. "How many times have I told you--"

"Never mind," Rowe interrupted crossly. "I remember now." He shoved Drake away with his left hand and sat up painfully, gripping his side.

Naima pushed his hand away and felt his ribs with her thumb. Rowe groaned and waved her off.

"I'm fine," he gasped, breathless with pain.

"I've got to find some more fiscen leaf," Naima said with a sigh, sitting back on her heels. "It will help with the pain."

"Naima, I'm sorry!" A young woman ran up behind Naima, breathless from her sprint. "I was helping Astra with something, and I came as soon as I heard someone was—oh, it's just you." She looked down at Rowe with the expression of someone noticing a dead cockroach.

"Kylie! Lovely to see you, darling." Squinting in the glaring sunlight, Naima grinned up at her.

Suddenly lacking the urgency of ten seconds earlier, Kylie returned the smile and started twisting up her hair at the nape of her neck. Eyeing her guardedly, Rowe climbed to his feet.

"Hello, Kylie," he said, visibly uncomfortable. "You're looking…well."

Kylie glanced at him.

"I know," she said icily. "And you're looking like death, as per usual. By the way, I still hate you."

Rowe grimaced.

"I figured," he said ruefully.

Kylie pointedly looked away from him, turning her attention instead to Drake.

"Hi," she said with a charming smile, still finger-deep in her ridiculously long white-blonde hair.

Drake stood up, slightly disconcerted.

"Hi," he returned uncertainly.

"Drake, right? I'm Kylie."

"It's a pleasure." Drake offered a weak half-smile.

Naima straightened up as well, disguising a giggle as a cough.

"Rowe, you shouldn't be standing up," she said, more as an order than a suggestion.

"I told you, I'm fine," Rowe said with a set jaw. He hated Naima's constant mothering, and his temper was heating up.

"No, you're not _fine_. You've got a broken rib, maybe two, and probably a concussion as well." She tried to touch his swollen cheek, but he waved her away irritably.

"I've broken ribs before. Quit hovering."

"I got the bandages." Ravyn rejoined them with two handfuls of linen strips. "Rowe, shouldn't you be rest—"

"I'm _fine_!" Rowe snapped, much more harshly than he intended.

Ravyn frowned, caught off guard by his burst of temper. She tossed the bandages at his feet.

"Good to know," she retorted hotly and stalked away. Drake shot Rowe a scathing glare and hurried after his sister.

"Well _that_ was handled nicely," Kylie said with a smirk.

Rowe just rubbed his left temple and sighed.

"On that note, I'm off to find some fiscen leaf," Naima said with forced brightness, stooping to grab her side satchel. "Kylie, put this salve on Rowe's arm and bandage it, please." She tossed a vial to Kylie and started to leave.

"Nai, wait!" Rowe protested. "I'm not letting _her_ anywhere near my—"

"Honestly, Rowe, Kylie is one of our brightest healers." Naima didn't even slow down, and soon she had disappeared between the rows of tents.

"You hear that, Rowe? I'm in charge." Kylie snatched up a handful of bandages.

"She didn't say that," Rowe muttered crossly.

"I did."

"What makes you think—" Rowe yelped in pain as Kylie slapped some salve on his wound more harshly than necessary.

"Maybe you should have thought about this _before_ you jumped into a fight you couldn't win," she said coldly.

"Give me a break—I was trying to spare some bloodshed."

"Oh, that's right. You always have to be the hero, don't you?"

"I don't hear anyone but you and Naima complaining." Rowe smiled tightly, unable to mask a certain sense of smugness.

"Stars above, I'd forgotten how annoying you are." Kylie smeared on some more salve, careful to make it as painful as possible without damaging the stitches. Rowe yelped and jerked away.

"And I'd forgotten how vindictive _you_ are," he snapped, cradling his arm.

"You stole my horse!" she cried, whipping out the crux of her disdain, as she always did when they crossed paths.

"We were eleven!" Rowe replied exasperatedly—his same response every time.

"I _liked_ that horse."

"You're bloody insane."

"And you're an arrogant prig."

"I apologized—at least a dozen times!"

"That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the way you've been treating the princess."

"Who—Ravyn?" Rowe was caught off guard. Kylie had an irritating habit of randomly changing subjects in the middle of a conversation.

"No, the other princess we have running around camp." Kylie rolled her eyes and yanked a bandage tight around his arm. "Ravyn is a nice girl."

"I never said she wasn't." Rowe made a face and tried to sidle away from her, but Kylie pulled him back.

"Stay still," she ordered. "I've got to make you a sling, or you'll rip out your stitches—and the whole camp can hear the arguments you two keep having."

"Frankly, it's none of your business, Kylie."

"_Frankly_, you need to stop acting like a child." Kylie finished with the sling and looked at him pointedly. "You're allowed to be selfish and idiotic when you're eleven, but in case you haven't noticed, you aren't anymore."

"What do you want from me?" Rowe asked flatly.

"I want you to quit being stubborn," Kylie ordered in the same tone. "And by the way, I still hate you. This advice is from the kindness of my heart." She turned on her heel and left.

* * *

"Rae, wait!" Drake caught up with Ravyn and put a hand on her arm to slow her down. She yanked away from him and kept walking.

"I don't want to talk about it," she snapped irately.

Drake grabbed her arm again and practically dragged her to a stop.

"What is the _matter_ with you?" he demanded.

Ravyn was slightly drawn back by his forwardness, and she paused to take a breath.

"I'm fine," she said slowly, wiping her damp eyes fiercely to staunch the flow of tears before they began. Drake noticed.

"Are you crying?" he grabbed her hand and frowned. "Is it because of him?"

"No, no," Ravyn assured a bit too quickly to be believable, barely keeping her composure. "And I'm not crying."

"What did he do to you?"

"Nothing! Drake, it's not a big deal, and I don't want to talk about it."

"Whatever it is—he's not worth it."

"Quit talking like you know him," Ravyn snapped, suddenly defensive. "You don't."

"So it _is _something he did."

"No! And if it was, it's not like you could do anything about it. So stop breathing down my neck and let me handle this for myself."

Drake took a deep breath, recalling Naima's words, but was unable to heed them. He didn't want his sister to make mistakes, and he didn't want her to get hurt.

"Don't you at least want to talk about it?"

"No," Ravyn said immediately and decisively. She slid her hand out of his and tried to walk away, but Drake grabbed her arm again.

"Don't do that," he begged.

"Do what?"

"Brush me off! You used to tell me everything, Ravyn. What's changed?"

"Our _lives_ have changed, Drake. I'm not that naïve, happy-go-lucky princess anymore."

"Rae, I don't understand—"

"I don't need you to hold my hand through this—I'm not a child. Just leave me alone." Ravyn freed her arm from his grip and walked away, never looking back.

Drake frowned deeply and swallowed hard, wondering what had happened to his little sister.


	36. Decision

_A well-made decision is equivalent to a thousand years' worth of well-given advice._

_-Unknown_

The day passed at a numbing pace for the Tevouin camp. The daily routine was empty and forced, and the sound of weeping still drifted on the desert breeze. By midday, the mingled heat and melancholy were overwhelming, and routine was deserted completely, leaving the camp in a state of uneasy stillness.

In this quiet air of abandonment, Drake sat in the shade of the Circle and tried to rest. The noon sun was hotter than usual, and even with the palms serving as cooling canopies, he was forced to strip to his waist in order to remain reasonably comfortable.

The morning had been spent helping dig graves. No one had asked him to help, but he'd needed something to take his mind off the argument with Ravyn. Now he was aching, exhausted, and _still _worried about his sister. The current state of things made him miss being able to talk to Grey. The man always knew how to handle Ravyn, even when she was acting entirely inexplicable. The thought of his traitorous mentor depressed Drake further, and even the crushing heat couldn't serve as a competent distraction anymore.

The role of diversion was eventually served by Kylie, who arrived and plopped down beside him without warning.

"Hello," she said, watching him expectantly. Her white-blonde hair, streaked with dirt and sweat, was piled haphazardly on top of her head. Loose strands fell down past her oval face, starkly contrasted by her dark eyes.

"Hello," Drake returned evenly.

"You're covered in dirt," she pointed out, as if that was the most obvious place to begin the conversation.

"I've been digging graves."

"Ah." She fell into a respectful silence as the night's events weighed heavily between them.

"What do you think about all of it?" Drake asked at length, gesturing to the heavily-trafficked sand before them, where the carnage had taken place.

"The same as everyone else, I suppose. Terrible business."

"Did you know any of the people who…" He found he didn't want to complete the sentence. Asking about death made it more real, and he'd had his taste of reality that morning while standing waist-deep with a shovel in a plot of earth. The Tevouin camp was supposed to be separate from the cold life of murder and intrigue that lingered in the Silvernian castle, but it seemed that the coldness had followed him here, undeterred by the desert's heat.

"I knew some of them," Kylie answered softly. "Not half as well as I would have liked, but I guess it's too late to regret that now. Owen was a good man, you know. What you saw last night…it wasn't him, not really."

Drake nodded slowly, wondering unaccountably if the same could be said of Grey. He missed the man who had been a father to him—and perhaps the man who betrayed him was a different man entirely. If that was so, maybe the real Grey still lived somewhere—a prisoner to the snares of politics and sedition—but alive all the same.

Kylie wiped her damp eyes vigorously and took a deep breath.

"I hate being sad. Let's talk about something else."

"Alright."

"Where's your sister?"

"Avoiding me."

"I understand. I've got a kid brother."

"How old is he?"

"Jason turned eleven three days ago. One minute he's chasing goats and making mud pies, and the next he's swinging a practice sword and asking Mother to sew him leather armor." Kylie sighed with a rueful smile on her lips. "Of course, it doesn't help that _Rowe _of all people is his idol."

Drake cocked an eyebrow at her disdainful tone.

"And I thought that everyone here liked Rowe."

"Think again. He stole my horse when we were kids, and I haven't liked him since. Don't get me wrong—he's a great captain, but he's so _annoying_. His charming little routine of confidence and charisma might impress some people, but I'm not so easily won over."

Drake laughed shortly, and Kylie grinned.

"And you? What do you think about everyone's favorite captain?"

"I think if he makes my sister cry again I'll stab him in the throat."

Kylie blinked at his violent terms, but chuckled.

"I'd like to see that," she declared. "Your sister might not be pleased, though."

"What makes you think she likes him any better than I do?" Drake asked carefully.

It was Kylie's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"You would have to be deaf, blind, or an idiot _not _to see it. The whole camp has been talking about it—please tell me you knew."

"Of course I know," Drake replied testily. "I just didn't know it was a public spectacle."

Kylie gave an unladylike snort and looked at him with a trite smile.

"The Tevouins are a family. We look after our own, even if that means being a bit nosy."

"Maybe if the world subscribed to that idea, we would all live in a better place," Drake muttered, thinking briefly of his own disjointed family.

Kylie seemed momentarily surprised.

"You're smarter than you look," she commented appreciatively. "And maybe more Tevouin than you realize."

"Is that a compliment?" Drake asked with a hint of suspicion.

Kylie flashed that trite grin again.

"I don't give compliments—more often than not, _those_ are just little white lies. I make truthful observations."

"Sounds like a good way to make enemies."

"Why? Did I offend you?" Kylie asked, with a hint of taunting in her features.

"I've been called worse than 'Tevouin' in my life," Drake responded with an amused smile.

"Hmm. Considering what your circle of society thinks about Tevouins, I find that hard to believe. Unless I'm mistaken, the most recent rumors have us cutting out the hearts of lambs and force-feeding them to our children?"

"Well, now that you mention it, I _have _noticed a shortage of lambs around here."

Kylie snorted in laughter.

"And everyone told me you didn't have a sense of humor!" she exclaimed.

"I guess rumors can't be trusted."

"I guess not—except the one about Rowe being scared of butterflies. Believe that all you like. I started it myself." She issued her clever smile, which wrinkled her nose and bunched her cheeks, giving her an air of youth and innocence that was contradicted by the daring twinkle in her eye.

The mention of Rowe made Drake feel melancholy again, and he sighed.

"I'm sick of worrying about this," he said suddenly. "You know him better than I do, so tell me the truth—is Rowe going to break my sister's heart?"

Kylie looked startled by the abrupt question and shook her head uncertainly.

"That's the problem with Rowe. His unpredictability is his greatest strength and his worst fault—you really should be asking Naima about this. She knows him best."

"Naima would just tell me something philosophical. I need a straight answer."

Kylie laughed shortly.

"Rowe doesn't leave room for straight answers, and he certainly doesn't explain himself to me. I actually avoid him as much as possible."

Drake's visible disappointment prompted her to continue.

"But you shouldn't worry too much. I think Rowe has met his match in your sister, whether he'll admit it or not. Besides, at the end of the day, she'll always have you. You're a good brother."

"And if I'm not?" Drake asked in a quiet tone, glancing at her dejectedly.

Kylie smiled softly and patted his hand.

"I don't give compliments, remember?"

* * *

After her argument with Drake, Ravyn went to the Outskirts and found solace in the one thing that still made sense to her. Archery.

The target had one, unchanging face; the bow didn't care how hard she gripped it; and the object was simple—hit the center. She released an arrow and came excruciatingly close to doing just that, but her heart wasn't in it, so the arrow couldn't fly true.

She breathed in deeply and out slowly, letting her frustration, confusion, and hurt fly with another arrow. It found the center with a resounding _thump_, and Ravyn managed a satisfied smile. She fitted a third arrow and prepared to fire, but lost her concentration abruptly when she realized someone was standing behind her.

She knew it was Rowe. She wasn't sure exactly how she knew, but she knew. Maybe it was the way he stood just behind her left shoulder, close enough to feel his presence but not quite his warmth. Or the way he wordlessly nudged her heel with his toe, correcting her stance from habit. Or maybe the way her heartbeat quickened, though she willed it to calm.

"What do you want?" she demanded, releasing the arrow. It hit the left edge of the target.

"You didn't compensate for the breeze," Rowe responded.

"I _know_ that." She snatched another arrow. "You didn't answer my question."

"Your footing is still wrong," he replied as she fired. The arrow sliced through the air cleanly and lodged next to its brother in the center of the target.

"It's good enough," she said pointedly, glancing at him. "Now answer me."

"What was the question again?"

"Are you really this idiotic?"

"No, I don't think that was it…"

"Rowe!" Ravyn whirled and whacked him on his good arm with her bow. "Stop playing games with me. What do you want?"

"Ow. Fine." Rowe tried to rub his arm, but with his right arm in a sling that proved difficult. "I just came to tell you that I lied."

"About what?"

"Moving on. I don't want to."

Ravyn caught her breath at the abruptness of the confession. Looking back, of course there was never a chance of Rowe breaking the news any other way. He was abrupt and succinct in his very nature, and had never attempted to be otherwise.

"Are you…being serious?" she asked, wishing she wasn't quite so breathless—or trembling quite so hard. Their nearness to each other was not lost on her.

"Frankly, I can't stop thinking about you," Rowe said with a rueful grin. "I'm not sure how to explain it, but when you're around…everything is right."

Ravyn's heart skipped a full three beats, but she forced herself to remain composed. She had promised herself a long time ago that Rowe would never cause her to lose her head again.

"There are still some things we haven't resolved," she said, careful to guard her emotions.

Rowe looked pained.

"You aren't still worried about _that_, are you?"

"It's important to me! If we start a relationship, it has to be with no secrets."

"The secret has nothing to do with our relationship!"

"But it is obviously important to you, which means it's important to me too."

"It won't affect us, I promise."

"It affects _you_! I can tell. Ever since Evren confronted you, it's been eating at you, and it will keep eating until there's nothing left, and then we'll just be two strangers who shared a kiss once, but nothing more."

"I can't share _this_. It's a part of my past that I left behind for good. Why can't you trust me?"

Ravyn sighed, torn to pieces by the pleading in his bottomless blue eyes.

"Because you can't leave the past behind, Rowe, not really. You can throw it into the light, embrace it for what it is, and move forward, but if you bury it inside then it will only fester."

"You sound like Naima."

"I pay attention, and so I also know that trust isn't a gift. It has to be earned."

"What have I ever done to make you doubt me?"

"This! You're hiding something, and if you don't tell me what it is--" She took a deep breath to steel her resolve. "I'll walk away and never look back."

"I think you're bluffing."

Ravyn was drawn back by how easily he could read her lingering hesitation.

"And why would you think that?" she asked with a tight throat.

"I'm entirely too adorable for you to just walk away from." He flashed his signature grin, cocky and charming as always.

Ravyn exhaled with something like relief. She could handle this side of him—it was when he was being serious that she travailed on uncharted ground.

"Quit flirting," she said. "It isn't going to distract me."

"Are you sure?"

Ravyn had to bite her lip to keep from gasping, because Rowe was suddenly _very _close, with his lips by her cheek, his breath warm in her ear, and his good hand resting lightly on her hip. She was drawn back to the mountain, where the enchantment of the sunrise was tangible in the air.

"I'm quite sure," she managed, though she couldn't bring herself to pull away. Not yet.

"Are you going to make me beg?" he asked softly.

His voice sent chills twisting down her spine, but Ravyn finally gathered to strength to step back. She had made her decision, and she had to stand by it.

"I gave you my terms," she said shakily, backing away to put distance between herself and his captivating eyes. "I _have _to know what I'm getting into."

Rowe grabbed her hand and pulled her back.

"Come on, princess," he said, echoing his words from the mountain. "Take a chance."

For a split second, Ravyn wavered on the brink of indecision. A part of her screamed that she had to walk away, but most of her just wanted to feel his lips against hers one more time. Surely there was nothing wrong with—

"No," she said suddenly, barely recognizing her own voice. She pulled her hand from his and took several steps back. "A few weeks ago I might have taken the chance, but a few weeks ago I was a child. Not anymore. I'm keeping my eyes open."

She walked away, wishing that he would call after her but knowing deep down that he wouldn't. For all his unpredictability, she understood Rowe enough to know that he wasn't a chaser. If she wanted someone to chase after her, then she should have fallen in love with someone else.

_Love._

The word lodged in her brain and wouldn't dissolve. She guessed it would stay there, and a part of her liked the thought of that. The other part of her wanted it to disappear and never plague her again. She had always thought that love was a mixture of romance and happily ever after. She had _never_ thought it entailed walking away when the time was wrong, saving herself and Rowe from what would one day be a mistake.

She felt sad, but not conflicted. This was the right decision—she was sure of it. She had left Rowe the choice, and if he never came around then maybe this was all wrong anyway. The thought of that being the case made her want to turn and run straight back to him, but she knew she couldn't. If she was going to invest her heart into this relationship, then she couldn't do it blindly. She had made her decision. Now Rowe had to make his.


	37. Reporsi

((**Author's Note**: I know this feels like the never-ending story, but we'll get there eventually, I promise. Thanks for bearing with me. And for some reason the line dividers were not working, so I was forced to resort to XXXXs to divide the scenes.))

_E reporsi pon filgo, erter htonen mifi. Loperi e oi reporsi._

_--Ancient script in the Forbidden East_

"So, what was he doing here?" Alden asked, holding down a writhing dog while Runa administered some salve to a nasty bite wound on its neck.

"Who?" Runa asked, biting her lip in concentration as she examined the dog's injury.

"Owen." Alden winced as the massive dog began to howl and kick.

"What are you doing to him?" Saria asked uneasily as she and Suri approached, both bearing an armload of tinder.

"We're not hurting him," Alden assured, holding on for dear life as the canine came dangerously close to pulling away.

Suri made a comment in her own tongue, and Runa replied shortly, still focused on the animal before her.

"Almost complete," she muttered at length as she ran her slender, cold-bitten fingers through the fur on the dog's back, searching for more wounds.

"I am much grateful for your help," she said to Alden, glancing at him as her hands brushed over his.

"Well, I'm glad to be of assistance. Dog wrangling is a specialty of mine." Alden flashed his characteristic grin and winked.

It was obvious by her expression that Runa didn't quite grasp his jest, but she smiled anyway—a gesture that made her blue eyes stand out even more against her dark silk skin.

Saria yelped suddenly and dropped her armful of tinder. The gray cat whined with its peculiar croak and intertwined himself between her legs, glaring up at her with his amber gaze.

"You silly cat," Saria admonished. "Look what you made me do." She stepped away from him and knelt down to gather the tinder. Most of it was rendered damp and useless by the melting snow.

"Is well," Suri said amicably. "We have enough."

The cat hissed abruptly at the dog, sending the poor canine into a frenzied panic. When he couldn't wrench free from Alden, he started snarling and snapping with his yellowed fangs. Alden and Runa both jumped backwards, and the dog fled.

"I thought cats were supposed to be afraid of dogs," Alden said ironically.

"He fears the _kiosi_," Runa replied. "You are not hurt?"

"I'm fine." Alden jumped to his feet and extended his hand to help Runa up.

"He's just a cat," Saria muttered, glaring at the both of them and scooping the feline into her arms.

Suri rattled something off rapidly to her granddaughter, gesturing with her wrinkled hand toward the north end of the little village. Runa inclined her head in a respectful affirmation, and Suri carried her tinder into the little hut.

"She wishes me to visit Doss Hende. He fell ill in the day before yesterday." Runa looked at Alden with a graceful smile. "Would you like to visit with me?"

"Sure," Alden said quickly.

Saria watched the way they looked at each other and unconsciously squeezed the cat tighter. The cat let loose an angry feline wail and dug his claws into her arm defensively. Saria shrieked and dropped him to the soggy earth.

Alden and Runa both looked at her.

"You want to visit as well?" Runa asked, taking the little episode as an attempt by Saria to draw attention to herself.

Saria blushed.

"Well, I--" she began to murmur.

"Is a _very _long walk," Runa added hurriedly. "Most…not-pleasant."

"You seemed keen enough about it five seconds ago," Saria snapped huffily. "When it was just going to be you and Alden…"

The girl's skin was too dark to truly tell, but Saria guessed that Runa was blushing furiously. Alden was very artfully looking elsewhere and hiding his smile with a surreptitious cough.

"I only mean that such a delicate girl might prefer to help with the preparing of dinner," Runa clarified hastily, sweeping her arm toward the hut invitingly.

Alden snorted in repressed laughter. Saria's jaw dropped open slightly with stunned anger, and she crossed her arms.

"I'm coming," she said stubbornly.

"Are you sure?" Alden asked, unable to resist a mischievous jab. "In your delicate state you might—"

"Be _quiet_," Saria ordered sharply.

Runa looked between them, visibly perplexed.

"It is customary in the west lands for women to behave so…angrily?"

That sent Alden into another fit of laughter.

"Only the delicate ones," he managed finally.

Runa smiled lightly with the look of someone who missed the joke. Saria just glowered at Alden, resisting the sudden urge to smack him across the face. For some reason, his good-natured jesting was only acceptable when someone wasn't there to witness it.

They set off for the homestead in question. Runa stayed at Alden's side, catching his arm whenever she stepped in a deep snow drift, and even sometimes—Saria noted irritably—when she didn't. The stunning, exceedingly elegant young woman spoke to Alden in a low voice, evoking occasional spurts of laughter from him.

For her part, Saria just struggled along in their footsteps, wishing she had stayed behind but too proud to return. At her heels, the gray cat bounded along unconcernedly, emitting a constant stream of mewing as if he was trying to get Saria's attention, though every time she glanced down he just stared back at her with wide amber eyes.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Under the sweltering sun, the Tevouin camp lingered in an uneasy stasis. Drake and Kylie still sat beneath the palms of the Circle, chatting noncommittally as heat throbbed around them. Ravyn reclined in the sand near the southern end of camp, shaded by a tent as she recounted their adventure in Cullum to the drowsy children sprawled around her. Kat dueled fiercely with Dobbs in a practice ring, finding comfort in the harrowing competition. From the sidelines, Rowe watched silently, though his thoughts were battling elsewhere.

A sudden hot wind picked up, stirring the red sands and rippling the sparkling waters of the watering hole. Then, as quickly as it arrived, the wind died. Hoof beats thundered on the southern horizon, and Naima rode into camp as if a sandstorm licked at her heels.

"What's wrong?" Ravyn asked, jumping to her feet as the Tevouin woman reined in her mare.

Naima's expression was stricken with mute anxiety, and as she dismounted her eyes flew across her surroundings as if she expected them to go up in smoke at any moment.

"I don't know," Naima answered breathlessly. "Something…I can't…They aren't _talking _to me."

"Who isn't talking to you, Naima?" a doe-eyed toddler asked, crawling to her feet and grabbing hold of Naima's skirt protectively.

"The fey," Naima said quietly, rubbing the girl's head and meeting Ravyn's eyes. "Something is very wrong."

"Andrew, stop touching me!" one of the girls in the sand squealed.

Ravyn rolled her eyes and turned, preparing to scold Andrew for pestering his little sister Isabel again. She stopped mid-word, frozen by the sight before her eyes.

"Andrew, what are you doing?" Isabel whined, jumping to her feet. "_Stop_, or I'm telling Mama."

The eight-year old Andrew lay prone in the sand, shaking violently as seizures ripped through his small body.

"Ravyn, take the children," Naima ordered immediately, pushing them aside as she knelt beside the boy.

Stunned for only a second longer, Ravyn sprang into action and herded the children away, telling them gently that Andrew was sick, and they needed to go play somewhere else until he got better. Only Isabel wasn't convinced. She tore past Ravyn and yanked insistently on Naima's sleeve.

"Tell him to stop," the six-year old cried with a trembling lower lip. "Tell him to stop, or I'm telling…" She trailed off into tears, and Ravyn pulled her into a firm bear hug.

Andrew didn't stop, and the veins in his temples and neck began to bulge sickeningly. When he started vomiting black bile, Isabel started to scream.

"_Stop_ it!" she shrieked. "Andrew, stop! Stop--" Ravyn pulled her closer to shield her eyes and started to carry her away. A crowd had begun to gather.

Just then, Andrew stopped seizing.

Isabel drew away from Ravyn hopefully and looked at Naima. Jaw quivering, Naima glanced at Ravyn. The look in her eyes said it all, and someone in the crowd began to scream Andrew's name.

Ravyn swallowed hard and snatched up Isabel, carrying the protesting child through the rapidly parting crowd.

"Why is Mama crying?" Isabel demanded, craning her neck over Ravyn's shoulder to witness her mother sobbing over Andrew's still body. "I want Mama. Andrew was being mean to me, and he wouldn't stop, and I have to tell Mama."

She tried to wiggle from Ravyn's arms, but Ravyn only held her tighter and fought back the tears rising in her own eyes.

"I'll bring you back to your mama soon," she said in a painfully strained voice, mind still spinning from the suddenness of everything.

"I want Mama," Isabel whined, unsatisfied. "I--"

She made an abrupt gagging noise and stopped speaking.

"Isabel, what is it?" Ravyn asked with a frown, shifting the girl's light body so she could see her face.

That was when Isabel began to spasm violently.

Ravyn's world lurched to an excruciating halt, and all she could do was shout for Naima.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You still haven't answered my question," Alden said at one point. "Why was Owen here?"

"I do not know why he came," Runa said truthfully. "He was a man of much privacy."

"Well, he was here for over a year," Saria inserted. "You had to learn _something_."

"I _learned_ your tongue," Runa answered dryly. "He did not do much else here, except learn of our customs, and—" She seemed to catch herself suddenly. "Well, he did not do much else here," she repeated.

Alden noticed the elusion and jumped on it.

"What are you leaving out?" he inquired persistently.

"It is nothing," Runa said uncomfortably. "My grandmother wishes me not to speak of him. He loved our customs though—our system of _reporsi_—justice, I think, your word is?"

"And did your lovely justice system almost behead him as well?" Saria asked with mock sweetness.

Alden started to intervene, but Runa accepted the subtle challenge.

"After Owen, my people have reason for distrust of foreigners," she said sharply, but bit her tongue as she realized her slip.

"What did he do?" Alden asked swiftly, determined to ease it out of her.

"It is nothing," Runa insisted stubbornly. "The home of Dross Hende is just over that rise," she pointed ahead, trying to change the subject.

Alden and Saria exchanged a glance, silently agreeing that this was a subject that could not be dropped so easily.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A half hour later, three more Tevouin children were dead. Naima, Kylie, and the other healers were in a tight knot on one side of the Circle, talking in hushed, intense voices. All of their faces were pale from the trauma of helplessly watching children die.

The crimson council tent was in an uproar as the members of the council tried to sort out the events. The rest of the Circle was swollen with Tevouins, all trying to make some sense of what was going on. Half were hysterical, and the rest were being downright insufferable with their general gossip and useless advice. A good percentage of that hysteria and insufferableness was aimed directly at Rowe, who was one of the few captains who had walked away from Owen's slaughter.

Rowe had been trying to make his way to the council tent with a nervous boy in tow for ten minutes, and all he had accomplished was gaining fifteen feet of ground and an earful of garbled entreaties. His patience, stretched tragically thin over the morning, was a single thread away from snapping.

"You've always been deaf in one ear, Priscilla," he said pointedly to an aging woman that had attached herself to his good arm and demanded that he find her a healer because she was surely dying of whatever it was that everyone was so worried about.

"I know," she said anxiously, gripping his arm harder when he tried to slip away. "But I feel like it's a mite _more _deaf all of a sudden, and that can't be good."

"How can you be _more _deaf—never mind. Priscilla, I have to get Jason to the council. He raised the boy's wrist, which he currently held in a tight grip lest the lad be swept away by the forming mob.

"He's not dying," Priscilla wailed in her high-pitched, wheezy voice that succeeded in shredding through the remainder of Rowe's patience.

The irate captain was about to say something that he would most definitely regret when Ravyn appeared next to Priscilla.

"I'll help you find a healer," she offered, artfully peeling the woman's grip off Rowe's arm.

"Thank goodness," Priscilla said, softening. "At least someone cares about my survival." She shot Rowe a look that would freeze fire and clamped onto Ravyn's arm.

Over Priscilla's head, Rowe and Ravyn's eyes locked for a brief, uncertain moment. Tension still crackled in the air between them, but the looming crisis left little room for personal issues. After a second's hesitation, Rowe mouthed a relieved "Thank you." Ravyn just smiled tightly and led Priscilla away.

"Rowe, I changed my mind," Jason said at length as they navigated the crowd. "I don't wanna talk to the council."

"Too bad, kid. You have to tell them what you told me."

"That's alright. You can tell 'em for me." Jason tried to wriggle out of Rowe's grip but found it quite impossible. At that, he made a face. Even with one arm in a sling and a broken rib, Rowe was stronger than he was. It was a blow to his eleven-year old ego.

Jason glanced wistfully over his shoulder as Rowe pulled him along, wishing for the first time in his life that his sister Kylie would come stick her nose in his business, as was her habit. But Kylie was on the other side of the Circle, where the healers had just finished their deep discussion. Now she was talking to that prince from Silvern and completely ignoring her duties as overprotective sister.

They arrived at the council tent right as Astra came out. Her short dark hair was more chaotic than usual, and her face was wound tightly with exhaustion and worry.

"Not now, Rowe," she said, waving a dismissive hand before he could speak.

"You'll want to hear this, Astra," Rowe insisted, pushing Jason forward firmly.

Astra looked down at the boy with an expression that wavered between forced calmness and utter impatience.

"What is it?" she asked shortly, when Jason didn't immediately begin. It was obvious from her sharp manner that she was worn perilously thin.

Her tone set Jason even more ill at ease, and the boy remained nervously silent until Rowe, sensing his discomfort, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Some of the boys drank straight out of the river," Jason said quickly, spilling his story as rapidly as possible. "It was hot an' we were all real thirsty, an' I _told_ them you said not to, but they just took a sip and Isabel was there too, an' _she _took a sip, but nothing happened so I thought maybe nothing was wrong with the water--"

"Jason, did you drink?" Astra demanded, alarmed.

"No!" Jason answered quickly, looking with wide eyes between Rowe and Astra. "Is it my fault they died?" His voice was suddenly very small.

"No," Astra answered just as quickly. "But you should have told us sooner. Andrew, Isabel, Eric, and Brennan—was there anyone else there who drank the water?"

Jason shook his head no, and Astra released a relieved sigh.

"Go find your sister," she ordered. "Stay with your family."

Jason didn't need to be told twice, and he raced off like there was fire on his heels.

"We have to move the camp," Rowe said, though undoubtedly the council had reached the same conclusion.

"We leave at dusk," Astra replied. "For now, I need the captains to spread the word again about the tainted water. Stress the importance that families make their children aware of the danger of even one sip. The water _has _to be boiled thoroughly."

"Astra, there are only three captains left," Rowe said softly, because she seemed to have forgotten.

A slight tremor twisted through the luminary's body, and she swallowed hard.

"Right," she whispered, holding a hand to her head as if the weight of everything was just now bearing down upon her. She stood in silence for several seconds, hands shaking lightly and eyes closed tiredly, as if she was trying to gather enough strength continue.

"How could Owen do this to us?" she asked in an uncharacteristically vulnerable voice. "How could he…" she trailed off, unable to continue.

Rowe didn't know how to answer her. Astra was his mentor of ten years, and he had never seen her look so helpless.

"I'll take care of it," he replied finally. "Don't worry."

Astra steeled herself with a deep breath and opened her eyes. The moment of vulnerability dropped away like a veil, and she was herself again—the fearless leader. An unstoppable force.

"Good," she said firmly, squeezing his good shoulder. "You do that, and I'll send some scouts to the southeastern oasis. The council has decided to set camp there next."

Rowe grinned reminiscently.

"We can string a hammock between those two trees again. The ones over the waterfall?"

Astra laughed.

"I had almost forgotten about that. I was still a captain then."

"You _are_ getting old," Rowe said, ducking as she aimed a half-hearted blow at the side of his head.

"And you'll never grow up," Astra said, waving him off. "Now go do something useful."

Rowe just grinned again and sauntered off. Astra watched him go, thinking bemusedly that she _was _getting old—though that didn't shock her as much as the realization that Rowe was actually growing up. From that very first day ten years ago when he had wandered into camp, she had never thought it would happen. But here he was—nineteen years old and a man by anyone's standards—willing to risk his life for the greater good, willing to fight no matter the cost, willing to take the weight of these bewildered people on his shoulders.

He had come a long way from that child of nine years. The notion made Astra feel very proud and very old. She had played mother and mentor for many of the Tevouin youth, and watching them grow steadily into the new generation sent chills up her spine, but they were largely chills of satisfaction. If Rowe and Naima and Drake and Ravyn were any indication of the world's future, then her mission in life had been a glorious success.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"He told me of your _reporsi _in the west lands," Runa relinquished finally as they neared Doss Hende's home. "Unjust—he called it. He said the mon—morn—mona—" she struggled to recall the word.

"Monarchy?" Alden suggested.

"Yes. He often told of how your king was very evil, and how the land suffered for him."

Alden glanced at Saria, but she was watching her feet in silence.

"He wished for new _reporsi _for his land. One day he comes to me—so happy! He says he has a _plocia—_plan. He has a plan for his land."

"What?" Saria prodded, as Runa knocked twice on the doorframe.

The curtain swished open before she had a chance to answer, and a bent old man stared at them wordlessly.

Runa spoke with him politely for a few moments, and he grunted his replies indifferently, spending most of his time watching Saria and Alden with a suspicious glare. Finally, he interrupted Runa with a sharp growl and said something to them with obvious distrust in his voice.

Runa answered him calmly and soothingly, but he seemed unappeased. Abruptly, he vanished back into his home.

"We leave now," Runa said with a sigh, turning.

"Obviously Owen did something pretty terrible," Alden commented.

"I do not know his plan," Runa defended swiftly. "I only believe that he was good heart. He loves _reporsi_; this is not evil."

"But what did he do?" Saria asked, famished with curiosity.

Runa hesitated.

"He only wished to know of our ways. The _dhurima _of my grandmother."

"_Dhurima?_" Alden asked.

"Heal, your word is? Healing? Our herbs make well."

"_Only_ your healing herbs?" Alden nudged.

Runa hesitated again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"We always boiled the water! We _boiled _it!" the woman wailed as her husband convulsed violently on the ground.

Her words chopped into Naima's brain like an axe into wood, but Naima couldn't waste time considering them now—not while this man lay dying before her. He stopped seizing finally, and his wife began sobbing in relief, but Naima didn't relax. He still breathed, but there would be black bile soon. Then he would die.

And she didn't know how to stop it.

More and more people were falling sick as the hours passed—the illness seemed to have a latent, elongated effect on adults. All the family members of the afflicted swore that their loved one had not drunk unpurified water, and if it wasn't the water that was causing this, then Naima didn't know what was. She had never seen anything like it.

The man started retching to the side. Black bile.

Naima held back frustrated tears and sat back on her heels as the man's wife fell down beside him and shrieked in agony. The man was muttering something to his wife, but Naima couldn't hear over the woman's wails—and neither did she wish to.

This was the fifth person Naima had watched die—Kylie and the other healers were dealing with more all across the camp. She had tried every herb and remedy she could possibly fathom, but the illness was an unyielding monster—unbeatable and seemingly indiscriminate as it ravaged young and old alike.

The man stopped moving, and Naima rose unsteadily to her feet. From all sides, she could hear the cries of Tevouins, begging for help from a healer, but there was no urgency left within her. Nothing she could do would stop this illness. She was as helpless as the victims.

A sick, cold weight settled in her gut, and she suddenly felt immensely alone. The fey were conspicuously missing, afraid to be anywhere near this cacophony of death and grief. Their absence left a cheerless, empty air around her—so accustomed was she to their constant companionship.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

She looked from the coarse red sand to the silent blue sky and shouted suddenly.

"Well, what? What do you _want_?!"

Silence was the reply, and Naima was swamped with the sudden hopelessness of a dejected lover. Her hands started to shake, and she suddenly couldn't breathe. It felt undeniably like death.

But then, beginning in her toes, a peculiar sensation began to wind through her body. She recognized it immediately, and a smile grudgingly found her lips. Tender, inexplicable peace melted the weight on her shoulders, and she breathed with relish. A familiar voice whispered wordless comfort in her ear, and all death seemed to dissolve.

"Fine," she whispered, glancing upwards. "Fine."

"Someone help!" A father's pleading reached her ears as his son collapsed. Naima breathed deeply to prepare herself and ran to the boy's side.

Maybe she couldn't save him. But she _could_ hold the hand of the dying and trust—trust that somehow, in the end, everything would be all right.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You let him have poison?" Saria cried, when Runa finally explained further.

"I did not!" Runa answered quickly. "He only learned of it. We would not give him of the _ylpera _plant—is forbidden for any but the _dhari _to hold."

"What does this plant do?" Alden asked.

"Is as you say—poison. Death for any man who tastes it. In days old, the _dhari _would give it to _gyorse_—those who broke the laws of _reporsi._"

"Good to know that you have evolved into more humane punishments," Saria commented dryly, seeing the execution block as they neared the village center. "Especially for people whose only crime is being foreign."

"They only feared that you come to steal more from us," Runa said indignantly, in defense of her kinsmen.

"He _stole _some?" Alden interrupted with alarm.

Runa fell silent, which was more than enough of an affirmation.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Naima searched in vain for her waterskin, but in all the confusion it had been permanently displaced. She hadn't tasted water since last night, and her body was starting to protest. There was little time for respite in these recent hours. The death toll in the Tevouin camp was rising steadily.

She had watched the dying breaths of so many that it had become a systematic blur. Seizures, black bile, death—a sick circle that ravished its victims within minutes—and Naima had seen it so many times today that the victims were becoming faceless. That scared her more than the death itself.

Finally she couldn't stand it any longer and left the camp altogether. Only a few hundred feet past the last row of tents, and she could already feel a sense of relief washing over her. She stopped walking when the sounds of heartache behind her had become only a vague song on the hot breeze. The fey still hovered at a distance; she could sense them more than see them, but it wasn't their company she desired.

Without thinking, she mouthed a prayer of release in the ancient tongue. Speaking in the dead language had always made her feel closer to the ancient power she prayed to.

"Leana mor'che dros vivte, ea Attu," she murmured. The prayer was a mantra of reassurance. _In death, we return to the true life._

"Talking to the fey?"

Naima nearly jumped out of her skin, and she whirled to look at Drake. He was quite possibly the first person to ever sneak up on her.

"Not quite," she replied breathlessly as her heart caught up with itself.

Drake just nodded. He seemed distracted; but then, Naima could hardly blame him.

"How are you doing?" she asked softly.

He just shrugged, staring wordlessly into the horizon, where the fading red of the desert sands melted into the serene blue of the sky.

"You're going to find a cure, right?" he asked finally, glancing at her with a hint of entreaty in his weary green eyes.

Naima looked away, back toward the horizon.

"I don't know, Drake," she admitted. "We're trying."

"You _have_ to," he interjected. "Can't the fey tell you?"

"They aren't omniscient creatures," she replied patiently.

"Well, what about your—you know." He waved a hand toward the heavens.

"I don't know. I don't think it works that way," she said, glancing upwards with a hint of distress, as if requesting help from on high.

"How can you not know?" he demanded. "You've always had an answer before."

"It's not me, Drake. You can't put all your trust in me. I'm only human, remember?"

Drake looked at her with an expression of hopeless confusion and pleading.

"I just…this illness—what if Ravyn—" He broke off and looked back to the harsh beauty of the landscape.

Naima breathed deeply and took his hand reassuringly in hers.

"You just have to trust that it will work out in the end. Everything is going to be all right, you'll see."

Drake just released a sigh. Naima bit her lip, contemplating what she wanted to say next.

"I was talking to the Blessed One earlier," she offered at length. "Would you like to stay while I continue? It's quite comforting."

Briefly disconcerted, Drake looked at her for a few moments in silence. But instead of quipping about her belief in the invisible, as was his habit, he merely nodded and followed her gaze up to the blazing heavens. The sun burned ardently in its place, sending scouring light across their upturned faces. The heart-wrenching sounds of grief still wafted from the camp.

Yet somehow, in the midst of everything, a semblance of peace hovered in the air.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"We did not wish him to have it," Runa offered feebly. "One night he is here, and the morning he is left. Much _ylpera_ left with him."

"Surely he couldn't have taken _very_ much," Alden reasoned.

"Only three stalks," Runa assured.

"There isn't much he can do with three stalks," Saria said with a hint of relief.

Runa fell suspiciously silent. Alden started rubbing his temples.

"How many people can three stalks kill, Runa?" he asked quietly.

"The _ylpera_ must be grinded, and it dissolves in water," Runa explained meekly. "Only a pinch of the grindings is poison for a lake."

Saria caught her breath sharply.

"A whole lake?" she whispered, feeling sick to her stomach.

"He was a good heart," Runa said stoutly. "I believe he would not kill people."

"What else would he do with that much poison?" Saria demanded angrily. At her ankles, the gray cat began mewing again, reaching up insistently to paw at her skirts.

"We did not wish him to have it," Runa repeated, barely above a whisper.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rowe could only remember crying three times in the course of his life. The first time he was nine, and it was an occasion that he preferred to forget. The second time, he was twelve, and a fall from a panicked horse broke his leg. The third time, he received the news that Nathaniel Lee, his best friend and brother by oath, had been slaughtered by the king's knights. He was seventeen at the time.

Today he was nineteen years old, and tears were streaming down his face in relentless rivulets of grief. He knelt on the hot sand, gripping Astra's hand as if his strength alone could pull her back from the brink of death.

She shook with seizures, obviously wracked with pain and unable to speak. A host of Tevouins stood around her, silent with worry and confusion and sorrow. In their midst, Kat could be heard, forcing her way through the motionless crowd with her usual spitfire.

"Get out of my bloody way! Let me through! Let me _through_, for the love of—" She finally broke through and stopped with a gasp in front of Astra's writhing form.

"Kat, get out of here," Rowe said, trying to sound authoritative through his tears and failing miserably.

"Someone _help _her!" Kat cried, falling to her knees beside the luminary and trying in vain to hold her still.

"We can't," Rowe murmured, biting back a sob as he looked at his mentor's contorted face. Only minutes ago she had been perfectly healthy, darting around camp with her usual vigor and purpose.

"Where's Naima?" Kat demanded, looking around, unwilling to accept Rowe's words. "Kylie? _Somebody!_"

The seizures waned, and Astra's eyes flew open. She looked between Kat and Rowe and a tight smile inched onto her lips.

"My star pupils," she said in a ragged voice. There was a hint of delirium in her eyes. "Kat, you'll never beat him if you don't--"

She turned her head and began coughing violently. Rowe squeezed his eyes shut when he caught sight of the black bile.

"Kat, leave," he said softly, fighting for composure.

"Shut up, Rowe!" Kat answered sharply, glaring daggers at him. "We've got to--"

Astra suddenly fell silent. Silent and still.

Rowe set his jaw and swallowed hard. The crowd around them began to quiver and murmur with grief.

Something like a sob erupted from Kat's throat, and she began to shake.

"Astra," she whimpered. Tears began to build in her eyes. "Astra, I didn't pull the knife on Jon, and I _have_ been practicing watching my opponent." The words tumbled out of her in rapid succession—pent-up confessions that came only seconds too late.

"That time that Dobbs beat me in a duel—I let him win. I know you hate that, but I didn't want him to give up. You said you would sign us onto the ranks together next year. I haven't forgotten. And I know you think I didn't, but I _did_ learn something when we went to Cullum. I'll never forget what Leota said, but you're the one who taught me everything I know. You're the….you…" She broke into sobs, throwing herself across Astra's breathless body like a child to her mother.

Rowe watched the scene with mounting sorrow. For some reason, his mind was traveling back to the southern oasis, where at the top of a waterfall two trees formed the perfect opportunity for a hammock. As anguish climbed in his chest and threatened to rip him apart, he let his thoughts rest in that peaceful place of the past, when Astra had taught him how to tie the perfect knot, and they had strung up the hammock together—a piece of respite, high above everything else.

So Kat sobbed, and Rowe remembered, while a luminary, teacher, friend, and mother lay dead in the unforgiving desert sands.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Surely there's an antidote," Saria said at length, hugging the gray cat tightly against the chill as they entered the warmer hut.

"I do not understand," Runa answered in confusion.

"Something to heal the poison," Alden explained.

"I do not know of any such thing," Runa confessed frankly. "It kills so quickly."

"But no one drinks out of a lake without boiling the water," Alden reasoned.

"Even the water in the castle's wells—the servants always boil it," Saria supplied, feeling relieved once more.

They both looked at Runa, who was quiet once more, staring into the fire with sad eyes.

"It cannot be boiled," she said softly. "Once the _ylpera_ is in the water, it cannot be removed."

A sickening silence punctuated her statement.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Evening finally crept cautiously upon the Tevouin camp, but no one paid it any attention. Those who were able were packing in somber silence, preparing to move camp as soon as the unmerciful sun had found rest behind the horizon. Grief still echoed through every family, and even the warm dusk breeze offered no respite from the chill of death. At the edge of camp, where the dusk shadows cast a warm glow over the horizon, a silent figure sat in the sand.

Naima turned her waterskin over in her hand, glad that she had finally recovered it. She had boiled the water earlier in the day, before any of this. There was a throbbing in her heart as she considered the drastic change that only a few hours could bring. She almost took a sip of water, but paused to speak.

"Tomorrow is a new day—you'll see," she whispered, before remembering that the fey were still scarce, and she was talking to empty air.

"Who is it this time? The fey or the Blessed One?" Drake asked, sitting down beside her in the warm sand.

"Maybe myself," she answered lightly, offering him a tired smile. "Any headway on the source of the illness?"

Drake shook his head.

"Don't worry. Everything will be all right," she said, glancing upward, where the first stars were cautiously burning.

"So you keep saying."

"How is Ravyn?"

"I haven't really talked to her."

"Well, now is the time," Naima said decisively. "She needs you."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Always with the questions, Drake. Will you ever just listen to me?" She prodded his chest with her finger, and he glanced down.

Naima flicked his nose with a gleeful smile.

"You'll always fall for that, won't you?" She giggled into her hand.

"I guess so," Drake replied ruefully, rising to his feet. "I think I'll go find Ravyn."

"Good for you. Have a lovely evening."

"Good night, Naima."

"Good night, darling."

Drake left, and Naima basked in the bittersweet loneliness for several moments before her raw and thirsty throat began to complain. She hadn't paused to take a drink all day.

There hadn't been time, amidst all the dying.

"Leana mor'che dros vivte, ea Attu," she murmured. Her mantra. Something she could cling to in these next hours as death still raged around her.

Her throat felt tight with despondency, and she swallowed a mouthful of water to chase away the sensation. She had forgotten how refreshing even a sip of desert gold could be.


	38. Responsibility

"_Consider the word 'responsibility.' Inherent in its very spelling is the 'ability' to 'respond.' As responsible citizens, we must retain the ability to respond properly to the situations which try us physically, politically, morally, and even emotionally. When we lose or ignore that ability, we lose the ability to be citizens—nay, we lose the ability to be." _

_--__Ageless Philosophies for a Perpetual Society_

It was snowing again in the Forbidden East. Great billows of white masked the heavens, and feathery fields of snowflakes drifted in lazy spirals to the frozen ground. Saria pulled her cloak a bit closer around her body and kept her face turned upward. The invigorating sting of each flake on her skin was an unparalleled pleasure, and she wondered why she had never traveled away from home before. Asherian snow was as rare as Silvernian sunshine.

Alden sat down beside her with a sigh.

"Where's Runa?" Saria asked wryly, not looking at him.

"She had to help Suri with some sort of herbal concoction," he replied with a shrug, oblivious to the cynicism in her voice. "What are you doing?"

"Enjoying the weather." She opened her mouth to say more, but abruptly fell silent. Conversation seemed almost vulgar in this world of dancing, pristine white.

For almost ten minutes, they sat without speaking, both lost in their own separate worlds.

"I talked to Suri about Jackson," Saria said suddenly.

"Mmm?" Alden murmured, clearly distracted as he gazed thoughtfully at the sky.

"She knows of a herb that can help him—gili-gilo-gilv-something—I told her everything that's wrong with him, and she's certain that this herb is what he needs to get better."

"Really? Does she have some?" Alden looked at her, finally focused.

"No, but she knows where some is. It's about five days' journey from here." Saria's cheeks were flushed more with excitement than the cold. "Isn't it wonderful? Jackson is going to get better!"

A split second of hesitant silence passed. Alden swallowed hard.

"Saria, are you sure that he…are you sure that he's going to be alive when we return?" he asked quietly, breaking from her gaze and looking to his hands.

Saria regarded him in silent horror for several seconds.

"How could you say that?" she demanded. "Of course he will be! He _promised _me. What is the matter with you?" She jumped to her feet in a sudden surge of indignation. Alden had never been anything but supportive of her hopes for her brother, and now, with one question, he was undercutting every single one of them.

"I'm sorry," he said, wincing. "I just—"

"We'll go get the herb, and we'll bring it back, and everything will be as it should," Saria bit off, cutting him short.

Alden stood slowly, refusing to meet her severe eyes.

"We can't get it," he said finally.

"What are you talking about?"

"We can't get the herb! The _Celeritas _leaves in a week. With the incoming storm, we'll barely have enough time to make it back to Whistle Point."

"So we'll wait for the next ship."

"In three months?"

"Jackson will hold on—he promised. I can't go back empty-handed."

"Saria, please, think logically for a second," Alden pleaded. "Owen wanted to get rid of the monarchy, and he stole enough poison to kill everyone in the castle, maybe more."

"We don't know what his plans were. Or even if he made back alive! It's been two years, and the dockmaster never said anything about him." Saria crossed her arms stubbornly.

"He could have easily avoided the workers on Whistle Point. Or maybe he paid off the dockhands. Or maybe you're right, and he never made it back—I don't know, but can we really take the chance?"

Saria shook her head.

"I don't understand."

Alden took a deep breath and looked her in the eye.

"We have to warn someone in Asher. If we don't, all those people could die."

"If I don't get that herb, _Jackson_ will die!"

"He'll die anyway," Alden snapped, and closed his eyes to calm down. "I'm sorry, but you have to realize what we're dealing with."

Saria bit her lip.

"It could be nothing," she said finally in a small voice. "Owen could have never made it back to Asher, and we could go back now, and Jackson could die, and it would all be for nothing."

"Or it could be everything," Alden said gently, but firmly. "You have a responsibility to those people, Saria."

"No, I don't!" she cried. "I don't care about the stupid monarchy. If my father can't preserve his own kingdom, then—"

"Poison doesn't kill governments," Alden interrupted sharply. "It kills _people_."

"What about my brother?" Saria demanded. "What about my responsibility to him?"

"You always talk about how much he loves Asher. Do you really think he would want you to save him at the expense of all those lives?"

"Go then!" Saria shouted defiantly. "Go save them! I'm going to stay here and save Jackson." She bit her lip again, realizing how loudly she had spoken. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and her breath was short.

"I can't go back alone," Alden said quietly. "They'll hang me for kidnapping royalty, and I'll never get the chance to warn anyone."

"You didn't kidnap me!"

"They don't know that."

"I left that note explaining everything."

"Saria…" There was a hint of gentle rebuke in his tone, which set Saria back.

Her head began to spin with her suddenly obvious foolishness.

She was blinded by her zeal of purpose—unwilling to see the downward spiral that things had taken. If Alden returned alone, she had no doubt that her father would have him hanged or worse—for appearances' sake if for no other reason. For all his selfish, childish ways, Cyrus was a master of politics. He understood the masses and what they wanted to see. A missing princess warranted a hanging, regardless of the circumstances.

But to return empty-handed! To look Jackson in the eyes and know that she could have saved him! She couldn't bear the thought of it. She didn't care about the masses. She cared about her brother.

"You can't ask me to choose," Saria murmured brokenly, angry that tears were building in her eyes. Everything had been working out like it was supposed to, and now it was being ripped from her fingers. "I shouldn't have to."

Silence drifted down with the snowflakes.

"You're right," Alden said at length. "You shouldn't. I'll stay."

"What?"

"I'll stay, get the herb, and return on the ship in three months."

"You mean…I…go back alone?" Saria asked, barely above a whisper. Fear raked her spine, and she shivered. Of course, it made sense, and it was quite possibly the best—and only—solution. But…

"I can't go back _alone_." The word stuck in the back of her throat and swelled until she could barely breathe. "I would never make it alive."

"Nonsense," Alden replied, managing to crack his familiar smile. "You've never needed me anyway."

"I've _always _needed you!" she cried. "Every step of the way. I would have never even left home without your help, and now you want me to go back alonewhile _you _stay here—probably so you can spend every waking moment with _Runa _and--"

She caught herself and clamped her mouth shut. Shame flashed red across her raw cheeks. Alden frowned and looked down, nudging the snow with the toe of his boot.

"I'm just trying to do the right thing," he said quietly.

Saria squeezed her eyes shut and tried to banish all the fear and frustration that welled up within her.

"I'm sorry," she said in a small voice, wishing that the thin wall of resentment she had just erected between them would dissolve.

Alden squeezed her shoulder companionably.

"You can do this. We'll go with you as far as Whistle Point."

Saria forced herself to look up. He was smiling at her.

"Thank you, Alden," she managed to say. "For…everything."

"Only doing my civic duty, your highness," he said with a laugh in his tone, pretending as if the resentment had never existed—as was his way. "Now come on; I'll help you pack."

* * *

It was the third day in the Month of the Lilac, and a storm was brewing over the Great Desert. Above the sandstone cliffs of the southeastern oasis, the sky boiled ominously in bruised shades of purple and blue. A waterfall plummeted steadily from the towering bluffs, providing a strange, crashing lullaby that ushered the camp into the hazy dusk. A dismal stillness hovered, as if the camp had become frozen within the river of time.

Over the top of the waterfall, two trees arched, forming the perfect opportunity for a hammock. One hung there now, swaying gently with the rhythm of the thunder that resounded on the eastern horizon.

Rowe stared absently at the fronds overhead, which were dark against the backdrop of the violent indigo sky. The powerful rushing of the water beneath him carried his mind to a separate place, far beyond the defeated silence at the base of the cliff. Rowe closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the air. The moments before a desert rainstorm smelled like damp and heat and morning and hope. For this moment, he was content to just rock gently in his hammock, listen to the creaking of the rope against the trees, and pretend like the rest of the world was nonexistent.

"That isn't exactly the safest place for a hammock."

"Quit mothering, Nai," Rowe muttered automatically, not opening his eyes.

A wordless moment followed. The water rushed, the hammock swayed, the ropes creaked, and Rowe opened his eyes suddenly because in his next heartbeat the real world collided with this sanctuary he had created.

Naima was dead.

Rowe craned his neck around and caught a glimpse of Ravyn standing on the shore, hugging herself and watching him with confused, grieving eyes. He looked back to the branches above him, which framed the leaden sky, and wondered if the storm would last through the night.

_Dead dead dead dead_.

The word drummed on his skull with the cadence of thunder, and he released a staggered breath. Five days had lessened the impact, but not the pain. There was a hole inside of him that couldn't be ignored. There was a distinct emptiness in the air—an absent breeze, a missing smile.

Naima was a constant of life, perpetual and unrelenting. And now she was gone.

Rowe swallowed hard against the lump in his burning throat and squeezed his eyes tightly closed against unwelcome tears.

Naima was gone, and the river still rushed. The hammock still swayed, and the ropes still creaked. Rain still loomed overhead, and Ravyn still stood silently on the riverbank.

"Rowe," she said finally, unsure how to begin.

"Let's not talk about it," he replied, keeping his eyes shut against the world.

"I'm leaving," Ravyn continued haltingly. "Drake and I—as soon as the storm passes."

Rowe opened his eyes.

"Why?" he asked, tilting his head back to look at her.

Ravyn broke from his gaze and looked down, hugging herself more tightly.

"It's time to move on," she murmured, barely audible over the rush of water.

"Move on to what, exactly?"

"I don't know," she replied frankly. "We'll find out when we get there. Goodbye, Rowe."

She offered a half-hearted smile and walked away. Every footstep drove a painful wedge into her heart. She loved him—she was sure of it. She loved him, but she was walking away from him, maybe for the last time.

More than her next breath of air, she wanted him to chase after her. But Rowe was not a chaser. That truth was the hammer that was methodically shattering her heart with every step she took in the opposite direction. Rowe was not a chaser. Not a chaser. Not a—

"Ravyn, wait."

His hand on her arm sent a streak of hope like lightning through her veins. She wasn't sure how he had made it from the hammock to the shore so quickly, especially with his left arm so recently out of its sling, but she didn't really care. As she turned to look at him, her breath lodged stubbornly in her chest, and her heart thudded rapidly in her ears.

Rowe was deeply conflicted; she could see it in his eyes, in his expression. She could feel it in his touch, in the way his grip on her arm was urgent and desperate, yet somehow hesitant. She didn't want him to let go. She wanted him to hold on forever and tell her everything she needed to hear. She wanted love to be easy.

Rowe looked upward, as if searching the portentous sky for some sort of guidance. After an impossibly long moment, he shook his head and dropped her arm.

Ravyn bit her lip to hide the tremor of disappointment and looked away. The desert panorama filled her eyes, but she couldn't really see it. A thousand indefinable emotions were washing across her in blinding waves. Maybe a part of her had known it would happen like this, and she hadn't accepted it. Maybe that's why it hurt so badly now.

"I have to go," she mumbled numbly, suddenly aware that she was trembling.

The sky, pregnant with the downpour of precious rain, seemed ready to let loose all its torrential majesty. Ravyn glanced upwards once and hoped that it would soon, so the rain could veil the tears that were building in her eyes.

"Wait. Please, just wait," Rowe said. There was a tinge of pleading in his voice. He stepped back and then forward again, pushing his hand through his hair with anxious energy. Indecision wracked him obviously, and his inward battle displayed visibly on his features, which were still bruised from the encounter with Owen six days ago.

"I've never told anyone before," he said at length. "Not even Naima."

There was a weakness in his voice—a sense of impending defeat. That weakness was displayed clearly in his stooped shoulders. Gone was the ever-easy confidence that had always seemed indispensable to his character.

Ravyn's heart lurched with sympathy. This secret had almost broken him. Was her insistence on knowing it hindering or helping the process?

"You don't have to tell me," she said softly. "I'll care for you either way, as a friend." Friendship only needed trust, and she trusted him implicitly. He had earned that much these past two months.

"I don't _want_ to be only a friend," Rowe said vehemently. With his characteristic abruptness, he slipped his hands behind her back and pulled her close.

"Love shouldn't be this hard," he said quietly.

Ravyn held her breath, struck by his sudden nearness. She found herself absurdly captivated by every curve of his bruised and haggard face.

"Maybe you're the one making it complicated," she replied breathlessly.

They remained as such for what seemed like an eternity—faces only inches apart, eyes locked definitively. Finally Ravyn spoke, keeping her voice low so as to mask the inescapable tremor.

"Rowe, let me go." She didn't want him to let go. She wanted to stay like this forever, and not worry about sense or secrets or _any_ of it. Why couldn't this be love? Just this—just standing and holding and staring. Why, in this decisive moment, did her heart betray all sensibility and command her to step away?

"Rowe, please," she whispered. "Just let me go." Another moment and she would lose herself completely. Reason and responsibility would dissolve, and she would be on the mountain again—eyes closed and heart unguarded, and that would be their ultimate undoing. If he only knew the sway that his touch held over her…

Rowe dropped his hands, and Ravyn stepped back, breaking painfully from his gaze.

"I can't…" he said, after a second of severe silence. "I can't let you go."

Ravyn looked up, and their eyes met once more. This time she could see something past the weakness—a hint of that tragic confidence she had fallen in love with.

"I was nine years old," Rowe began softly. "My mother—" His voice cracked, and he had to pause for a steadying breath.

Ravyn took his hand in hers and squeezed it comfortingly, smiling gently to mask the relief that raged within her. Rowe smiled back, barely, and began again.


	39. Faith

_Though these words will be the last I ever pen, I write them with a frenzied pace, wishing only to be done with this task. Is it not enough that I must suffer these injustices—must I relive them on this page as well? But I know I must, else the truth might never be told. _

_The night lightens. Oh, that the darkness would stave off the dawn! I feel faint of heart in these last hours. I thought I would be able to face death bravely, but I see now that all my courage came from you—and now you are gone. Can a man ever be resolved to death? My only comfort is the hope that your sweet face will be my heaven—all else would be hell. _

_I cling desperately to the happy memories we once shared—those dearest moments that now only sicken my soul with their vexing taunts. You would carry my favor close to your heart, and we would wander the gardens for hours. I don't remember the gardens—only you, my love. _

_Our long-awaited betrothal made me like a schoolboy once more, spewing gibberish and delight. You were always poised, though—quiet in your way. I understood you. Loved you. That dastardly prince never loved you. He only lusted for your sweet smile and tender hands. Oh, that I had murdered him in his sleep! Saved you from his ruthless grip! I truly never loved you enough—else I could have saved you. _

_The day that conniving dog cast me out of court with those lies and claimed you for his own is the day I lost my faith in our beloved monarchy. The power to undermine love for the sake of filthy lust—that is a power which we ought never have afforded the royals. My sudden destitution meant nothing to me, my love, only the absence of your face broke my spirit._

_You made a beautiful queen—still quiet in your way, but ever kind and just. Even your filthy, stubborn husband—that scoundrel who became king—was charmed by your grace. It amazes me still that you convinced him to invite me back to court. Though we could never speak to each other, just seeing your sweet smile mended the parts of me that had once been broken. _

_Of course, as the years passed, my spirit broke more every day to see you suffer. What evil did that monster do to you behind closed doors, that your lovely face was withered more each morning? Oh, I did not love you enough, or I could have saved you from his clutches!_

_I think on your children often, my love. Your petulant little daughter, who would stomp her foot and wail for you when you would leave the room. Your younger son would distract her with toys—quite a devoted boy, that one, though always a bit weak in the constitution. And your eldest—oh, that you could have seen the way he would stand in front of the others, arms crossed and glaring at the nurses, as if he were his sibling's guardian. Surely the sight would have sparked your smile once more—I hadn't seen you smile in years. _

_I warned the maids and nurses not to gossip in front of your children, because I knew you would not have wanted your little ones to hear the terrible talk around the castle. My love, the talk burned my own ears—though the sad truth was evident enough. Your fluctuating depression and joyous spells made my heart break, because I knew it wasn't really you. You were always poised and beautiful. That beast of a husband stole it from you. _

_I tried to protect your children, my love, but your eldest was keen of eyes and ears. I knew from the way he watched you and his father, the king—I knew from the way his jaw would tighten and his fists would clench when you and that monster entered the room. I knew because my reaction was the same. I tried to protect him, but your eldest could see as well as any what was happening behind closed doors. Or perhaps he could hear the screams at night—the screams that everyone heard and no one lifted a finger against. Oh, that I had loved you stronger! Perhaps my strength would have lifted me into action, to save you from that monster. _

_It was a burden too heavy for my heart, and one that your nine-year old son should not have had to bear. I do not blame him for the events that transpired in that terrible night, and neither do I blame you, my love. It was that monster who stole your life and mine. _

_Your wretched husband was in a late meeting that night, talking about politics with his wheedling lap dogs as if all was right in the world. I never asked your son why he went to your chambers that night—perhaps he had resolved the same as I had, to finally save you from that beast. His nine years had bred more courage than my thirty-four—you would have been proud of him, had you been yourself. _

_None of that matters now. Nothing has mattered since that moment when I walked into your chambers. First I saw your son, standing like a statue—petrified by the sight. Then, oh my love, then I saw you—cut down in your beauty, slumped in your favorite chair with that wretched knife in your blood-soaked lap. _

_The nightmare still haunts me, my love—still rips my heart from my chest in every single moment. Oh, that I could have scooped those volumes of wicked crimson from the floor and poured them back into your ruined wrists! Oh, that I had been strong enough to save you!_

_I know your son understood what had transpired on that night—I could see it in his eyes, blue eyes that were so undeniably your own. Something—perhaps it was the sudden absence of you—devoured all courage in the room that night. Even the bravest knight would have cowered in fear before your monstrous husband as he tore into the room. _

_He never claimed love for you, only control over you. And anger—his anger radiated when he found that you had spit in his face with this final act of desperation. That Asher's lovely queen had taken her own life! The people would be furious, and they would surely realize her reasons. They would surely realize the monster who had imprisoned you—the monster that they had once pledged loyalty to. In your dying breaths, you had undone the monster, my love—I still remember the sweat on his brow. _

_He was undone, but King Cyrus is ever a conniving dog. It chills my bones to recall the fury in his eyes—and the terror in your son's—as he grabbed the boy by the arm and dragged him from the room. _

_Moments—or maybe it was hours—later, the king had me in irons, awaiting my judgment in an open court. As if I could ever take the life of the woman I loved more than breath! Sooner would I carve out my own heart with that same wretched knife. _

_The people loved you, my love, and they need someone to blame for the darkness of that night—someone to hang as a murderer. Cyrus could not let them discover that your own tender hand had done the deed, for then you would have truly won. _

_Sickness eats my soul as I think upon that day in the king's court. The public so willingly gobbled up the lies that supposed witnesses—their pockets heavy with the king's own coin—spun. I must tell you sooth, though I have calmed it now, my heart raged in anger at your eldest son, who stood in silence whilst they slandered my love for you. Your other children were too young for such proceedings, as was your eldest, but I imagine Cyrus wanted to keep an eye on him, lest the truth slip from his young tongue. _

_The death sentence was not as terrible as watching your son, who I had always treated as a beloved nephew, say nothing to stop it. One word from him, one word of truth, would have opened the people's ears and eyes. He could have saved me, my love, but I should have saved you, so perhaps this is my just reward. _

_My ink runs low, and the sun has begun to rise. It won't be long, my love, before I gasp my final breath. Oh, that you would be my heaven. That is all I ask. And though I have given up most hope, I still believe that there is strength enough in your son to undo this treachery of his father's. You gave him that strength, my love, and though yours was stolen from you, perhaps his still remains. _

_--Last letter of Sir Darien of Asher, written upon the eve of his execution for the murder of Her Majesty, the Queen. _

"On the night before his execution, I ran. I left behind my brother and my sister and everything I had ever known and just ran." A visible tremor traced Rowe's jaw, and he swallowed hard. "Like a coward."

Ravyn was silent for several moments while her head swam with the unexpected information. A million different questions barraged her mind, but she knew that now wasn't the time for any of that.

"You were only nine," she managed finally, resting her hand on his arm. "Only a child."

"Not so much a child," Rowe replied bitterly. "I knew what was right—and what was wrong—but I stood there and let them condemn that innocent man to death."

"You were scared."

"That's an excuse, not a reason." He fell silent, watching the rain rip through the indigo sky.

They were still at the top of the waterfall, sitting under an outcrop of rock beside the rushing river. Rain hit stone in a sizzling cadence, drowning the heat in a deluge of desert gold.

"I don't remember his name," Rowe said eventually, in a voice that could have easily been discussing the blandest of childhood memories. "Isn't that terrible? I killed an innocent man, and I don't even remember his name."

"You didn't kill him!" Ravyn exclaimed, slightly horrified by his sudden change in tone, especially when the subject was so heavy.

Rowe just shrugged.

"I don't remember my mother's name either. Or her face. I do remember the way the firelight made her hair look red." He paused for a brief second, eyes locked firmly on the plummeting rain. "I remember being more scared of my father than anyone else in my entire life."

Ravyn swallowed uselessly against the lump in her throat.

"You thought the Tevouins would reject you if they knew?"

Rowe shook his head no.

"Maybe at first, but I realized soon enough that they would have accepted me despite—maybe because of—all of that. Especially Astra. Especially—" His voice faltered and he looked down. "Especially Naima."

Ravyn bit her lip. Rowe just sighed.

"I couldn't tell them because they _would _accept me, and that would make it all seem…okay, somehow."

Ravyn nodded slowly.

"You can't forgive yourself," she murmured.

"I should have saved him. I should have saved _her_."

Ravyn watched his averted face carefully and knew he wasn't talking solely about his mother.

"You can't save everyone," Ravyn said gently, but firmly. "You couldn't have saved your mother. Or Astra. Or Naima."

Rowe squeezed his eyes shut as if her words were an assault. A long minute passed, wherein the only sound was the pounding of rain and the grumbling of thunder. Finally, Rowe stood up. He glanced once, wordlessly, at Ravyn and then stepped from their shelter.

"Rowe, where are you going?" Ravyn demanded anxiously, jumping to her feet.

He didn't reply and disappeared into the sheeting rain.

* * *

At the base of the cliffs, lying on his back in a rain-soaked tent, Drake was staring at the dripping ceiling above him and thinking. He was thinking about how he didn't know where Ravyn was, and for some reason, that didn't worry him as much as it used to. He was thinking about the thin line that separated the living from the dead—how if he and Ravyn had filled their waterskins the morning after Owen's appearance instead of that night, then they would be dead just like so many others. He wondered how many Tevouins around the camp were thinking that same thing right now.

Only a third of the Tevouins had arrived at the desert oasis five days ago. There were three luminaries left, and only two captains. The dead they had left behind were staggering in number, and grief still held the camp in its sickening grip. Every single Tevouin had been cut to the core by the echoing consequences of one man's actions.

Drake closed his eyes and tried not to think about death. Instead, he found himself thinking about Naima, about how she would be chastising him relentlessly if she knew he was lying in here alone while the outside world fell apart piece by piece.

Maybe she did know. Maybe she had never left, and any moment now she would be outside, dancing with the raindrops and humming that infuriatingly nameless tune under her breath. Maybe she'd jump onto a barrel and quote Avalyn—completely convinced, as always, that the world was just as simple as the dead philosopher made it sound.

Maybe the breeze would start whipping around her, and if he looked hard enough he could see something with substance—always at the very edge of his vision and never quite visible. Naima would laugh and tell him to have some faith in the unseen. Maybe, over time, that substance would start to evolve into something quite visible, and soon enough he would be laughing and talking to the air as well. But he would be happy, at least, because Naima was nothing if not happy.

But no. Naima was dead, and all of that nonsense had died with her.

But what if it hadn't? Drake opened his eyes, staring again at the canvas ceiling as the wind outside began to bellow and toss the rain in a tumultuous fury. He stared and stared and tried to recapture a semblance of that peace Naima had carried with her. He tried and tried, but still anger and sorrow and uncertainty boiled in his chest.

"She didn't have to die," he mumbled. "It's not fair."

He wasn't sure who he was talking to. The fey? The Blessed One? Empty air?

"She escaped the stake, and the sword, and the desert, and the dragon, and _this _is what takes her? There's no justice in that. She trusted you."

The roaring wind and rain held no reply.

His heart constricted tightly, and Drake suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe.

"She's done so much good," he managed to whisper. "What purpose does her death serve? It's not fair."

The howling wind and rain died down to a gentle hum. Abruptly, inexplicably, a powerful peace washed over Drake. He gasped in a breath at the _suddenness _of it, unable to do anything for a few perfect moments but breathe and be. Naima's voice was echoing in his head, chattering cryptically about truth and trust and faith, and for a split second, all of it made sense.

He stared upwards, struck by the sensation of something tangible at the corner of his vision. It was invisible—barely a whisper of a thought—but, for that moment, it was enough.

Ravyn collapsed through the tent flap, soaking wet and panting from exertion.

Drake sat up, slightly disconcerted, but finally realized that tears were mingling with the rain on her cheeks.

"Rae, what's wrong?" he asked, alarmed.

Ravyn shook her head, still trying to catch her breath.

"Nothing," she gasped finally. "Can I just sit in here for a little while? It's nothing."

Drake frowned, but nodded. Ravyn took in a shaky breath and hugged her knees close to her chest. For a few moments, they sat in silence, and then Drake grabbed his blanket and wrapped it around his sister's shoulders.

"You're shivering, Rae," he said softly. "What were you doing in the rain?"

Ravyn shook her head again, pressing her trembling lips together.

"Please," she said at length. "I don't want to talk about it."

Drake didn't press further and watched her worriedly as she rocked slowly back and forth, face buried in her arms.

"Are you all right?" Drake asked after several minutes had passed.

Ravyn looked up with a sniffle.

"I'm fine," she whispered. "I'm just tired…and…" She trailed off and looked down.

"What is it?"

"Do you think that someone can ever…move forward from their past? Even if their past is something terrible?"

"Who are you talking about?"

"No one in particular," Ravyn said, very unconvincingly.

Drake sighed, resigned that she wasn't going to give him any more information.

"I don't know, Rae," he said after a few moments' thought. "I hope so. Otherwise, we might both be in for some problems down the road."

Ravyn wiped her damp eyes with her wet sleeve.

"It's not fair," she murmured. "Some people work so _hard,_ and they can never really move past it."

"Are you talking about Rowe?" Drake asked suddenly.

Ravyn just buried her face back in her arms.

"And so the princess married her prince, and they all lived happily ever after," she mumbled, almost incoherently.

"What are you talking about?"

She jerked her head up, as if suddenly incensed by something.

"One of those _stupid _fairy tales I used to read. Funny how they never mention that the prince can't even defeat his own monsters, much less save the princess from hers."

"Rae, you're confusing me," Drake said weakly.

"Forget about it," she murmured dejectedly. "You were right; that's all. Life isn't anything like the stories."

Drake sighed as wind began to whip at the tent.

"Well, you picked a fine time to actually start listening to me."

"Meaning what?"

"I don't know." Drake shook his head. "I've told you before—I don't know how to get through this. We were going to learn together, remember?"

A small smile grudgingly inched its way onto Ravyn's lips.

"I remember," she replied.

She lunged forward abruptly to tackle him in an embrace.

"You're a good brother," she said firmly into his ear.

Drake didn't care that she was soaking wet and transferring most of it to him. All he could do was smile, because—if only for a moment—his little sister had returned.


	40. Control

"_When it comes to kingship, to lose control is to lose everything."_

_--__The Duties, Responsibilities, and Expectations of Royalty_

The Asherian castle was dark with intrigue. King Cyrus had been locked in a room with his advisors for almost two days now, and there was no doubt that something was brewing. Gossip flew from mouth to ear around the castle, with rumors evolving so quickly that at sunrise Cyrus was planning another wedding, and by midday he was dying of a rare, incurable disease.

The truth was something that no one could know, which was why gossip had so eagerly taken its place.

"You made a mistake the first time, your majesty. The Great Desert is too harsh a terrain for war."

"_I _made no mistake," Cyrus replied sharply to the overly-bold advisor. "You imbeciles told me that we could succeed. Upon failure, I should have lopped every one of your heads off your shoulders. Instead, I showed mercy, and now you proceed to slander me to my face?"

"I meant no disrespect, my king," the man muttered, almost automatically. "I beg your forgiveness."

"After _your _scathing mistake the last time, it is obvious that an attack on the Tevouins will take a little more finesse," Cyrus continued, glaring at each of his advisors in turn.

"Begging pardon," one of the braver men began tentatively. "But I'm still not certain that an attack on the Tevouins is the best course of action."

"Pray tell, Sir Cedric, on what do you base your unease?" Cyrus said dryly. "My kingdom sits on a precipice. The search parties for the princess remain fruitless—my daughter is most likely dead. That useless son of mine will be soon. The past days of deliberation have shown beyond doubt that wiping out those desert devils once and for all will solidify the people's support. Or were you not paying attention?"

Cedric's cheeks flushed like a schoolboy's—whether from embarrassment or anger, no one could tell.

"Some might call an unprovoked attack counterproductive to his majesty's most exalted reputation," he said finally, with a careful tone.

"Unprovoked?" cried one of the other advisors. "Those barbarians spit in the very face of society. They deny kingship, and therefore the very roots of Asher. We cannot suffer such sedition to thrive."

"Besides, they are savages," added another. "Human sacrifices? Sorcery? How can you defend them?"

"I defend justice only," Cedric insisted. "The Tevouins have never openly threatened the monarchy, and the rumors about them have never been proven."

"They languish in the throes of their own savagery. You've heard the reports. After their most recent move, they left behind hundreds in mass graves. What else but some unspeakable barbarity could have resulted in that?"

"It's a wonder that you sleep at night, Sir Cedric," one of the oldest, loyalist advisors observed from the corner of the room. "It must be difficult with so much conviction weighing on your chest."

"I sleep well enough," Cedric replied with mounting ardor. "Especially when I don't have the slaughter of innocents hanging over me."

"Innocents?" scoffed Cyrus. "You forget how your innocents slaughtered ninety of my finest knights two months ago."

"Knights who were marching to do the same to them," Cedric muttered, but cast his eyes downward in recognized defeat.

"The desert devils are far from harmless," Cyrus continued, addressing the whole room and temporarily ignoring Cedric's rather insubordinate comment. "If we deal with them now, then they will not be a problem in the trying times to come."

King Cyrus could recognize that his kingdom was in a downward spiral. With the first heir on his death bed, fading more every day, and the second missing, presumed dead, the citizens were growing doubtful of the monarchy's supposed invincibility. Soon their minds would grow open to thoughts of change, and all he had worked for would be undone.

"Your majesty speaks wisely," assured the eldest advisor. "We will set the preparations in order."

Cyrus rose to his feet, clutching his goblet of wine in one hand. He sent Sir Cedric an imperial glance, to let him know that his insubordination was not easily forgotten, and then he swept out of the room.

* * *

Grey watched the bustle of the courtyard below with a stony expression. His exterior exemplified power, poise, and control—a trick he had learned upon becoming general—but within, his thoughts were spinning.

Occasionally a servant or knight would glance briefly toward the balcony, no doubt wondering what the inscrutable ex-general of Silvern was thinking about. They had no way of knowing the staggering, horrific consequences of the thoughts that weighed heavily on his chest. They had no way of knowing the contents of the simple leather pouch that he squeezed obstinately in one fist.

Owen was dead.

That was the heaviest of his thoughts, and the most immediate. Grey had not known the extent of the man's influence until he received that news. Apparently Owen had a network of supporters reaching all the way to Merchant's Row—that ridiculous little trading camp so closely connected to the Tevouins. That same network had relayed the news of his death back to the castle within a week.

And now Grey stood alone, the unwilling heir to the final, crucial task of the monarchy's defeat.

"A cleansing," Owen had said, dropping the pouch into Grey's hand. "A cleansing followed by the forcible formation of a new government that the people will have the freedom to compose themselves."

Grey's heart had twisted at something in those words. Perhaps they held an inevitable paradox, but the voice in his head raged too loudly for him to consider that.

_Freedom. Freedom for Asher, and then for Silvern. Silvern will rise from her ashes, finally immortal. _

"What is it?" Grey had asked, staring at the pouch and still barely holding ground against the sweet intensity of Owen's promises.

"_Ylpera_," Owen had answered with a dangerous smile. "If something happens to me, you will have to complete the final task. You must pour the _ylpera_ into one of the castle's wells. It doesn't matter which; they are all connected. Pour it in and leave immediately for Silvern. You will know what to do when the time comes."

"But what _is _it?" The pouch weighed like death in his palm.

"Our final victory, General. Our final victory."

Grey ripped his gaze away from the pouch in his hand, hating the sickness in his spirit. If this was Silvern's salvation, then of course he would follow through. He had gone too far to give up now.

_Just go a little farther, and Silvern can be saved. _

The demon in his head was too tempting to deny, and yet, he resisted.

There was no doubt what the contents of this pouch meant. Grey knew in his gut that Owen's final task—this _cleansing_ of the Asherian castle—would leave very few alive.

When it came down to Silvern and his last shred of conscience, where could he turn?

Below, knights and servants, young and old, milled about the courtyard. There was laughter and shouting and chores and an echoing splash as a maid drew water from the well.

Grey closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

* * *

Saria took a deep breath to steel herself and stepped from the longboat onto the shore. Alden jumped out behind her, nudging her forward when she hesitated.

"Come on," he said. "There isn't time to waste."

He seemed oblivious to her shortened breath, trembling hands, and shaking knees. Saria's stomach churned with anxiety as they neared the dockmaster's rickety old shack. He was outside with Captain Roth, discussing the cost of the _Celeritas_'s repairs. Upon Saria and Alden's approach, both men fell silent.

"By the stars!" the dockmaster exclaimed after a few stunned seconds, clearly flabbergasted at seeing them alive. He squinted at each of them in turn, as if trying to assure himself that it was really them.

Captain Roth said nothing.

"I can't believe you survived!" the dockmaster continued.

"Neither can we," Alden replied. "The stories aren't exaggerated."

"What did you find?"

"Ice, rocks, and snow—nothing else," Alden said with a shrug.

Saria bit her lip and watched the dockmaster's face. He seemed believing enough. At Runa's urging, they had promised not to tell anyone about what they had really found in the Forbidden East. The native girl had traveled with them as far as the eastern shore and remained there now, waiting for Alden to return.

"Nothing else?" Captain Roth echoed lightly, observing them both in turn with his cool gaze.

"Nothing," Alden confirmed, keeping the man's gaze with admirable tenacity.

Saria looked down, swallowing against the nervous lump in her throat. She remembered how easily Roth had seen through Alden's lie about the treasure map and guessed that the man could see just as easily through this lie. If he suspected something, though, he held his tongue.

"All the same, you two youngsters will have quite the story to tell when you return to civilization," the dockmaster said, scratching his beard and looking generally amazed.

"We weigh anchor in half an hour," Roth said. He looked, on the whole, fairly uninterested—a stark contrast to the dockmaster. But Captain Roth had never been overtly impressed by anything.

"Saria, why don't you go ahead and board?" Alden suggested pointedly. "I have to talk to Captain Roth."

Saria nodded numbly and obeyed. Alden had told her earlier that he would explain the situation, with as few details as possible, to the captain. Neither he nor Saria particularly savored the idea of her returning on the _Celeritas_ alone, without an escort, but it could hardly be avoided under the circumstances.

She figured that Alden would probably threaten Captain Roth roundly to keep her safe, and she also guessed that Roth would, characteristically, remain unimpressed by the threats.

They had begun arguing about something. Saria stopped midway up the gangplank and squinted through Whistle Point's constant fog to watch Alden wave emphatically toward the ship and Roth shake his head fervently. She guessed that the captain was not keen on the idea of becoming her keeper.

Members of the crew were busy loading cargo, sidestepping Saria with suspicious glances. She ignored them as best as she could, observing the distant argument until Roth finally seemed to give in, throwing his hands up in exasperated surrender. He brushed past Alden and mounted the gangplank, passing Saria without a word.

Alden joined her on the gangplank, looking altogether quite pleased with himself.

"It's all taken care of," he announced.

"Captain Roth doesn't look very pleased about it."

"He took some convincing." Alden shrugged. "But you'll be safe; he gave his word."

"Do you trust him?"

"You don't?"

Saria gave it a brief second's thought, but nodded.

"I do."

She _did _trust the stolid Captain Roth and his lively, eccentric first mate. However, Saria wasn't as afraid of the sea voyage back to Asher as she was of Asher itself. She could barely keep her seat on a horse, she had never read a map in her life, and the trip through Fairden forest had almost killed her last time—and that was with Rhodry, an experienced guide. What would the shadows of Fairden do to her a second time, traveling alone?

And even if she did manage to make it back to the castle alive, what would be waiting for her there? Would Jackson be waiting for her, like he promised, or would she and Alden's worst fears become a reality? Would her home be ravaged by poison and death?

The weight of it all made her feel lightheaded.

"Are you all right?" Alden asked, with an edge of concern in his voice.

Saria swallowed hard, but nodded again.

"Do you think…" she began softly, but couldn't finish. It took her several moments to steel herself against the doubt and anxiety that raged in her chest.

"Do you think we'll be okay? Will _everything _be okay?" Such a possibility seemed almost unreachable right now.

Alden smiled.

"Of course it will. Don't worry."

But his smile did not hold the same reassurance for Saria as it once had.

* * *

"Your highness, all is in order." The aged advisor bowed low to King Cyrus, keeping his voice low, though his words still echoed lightly in the drafty, abandoned corridor.

"And the route?" Cyrus asked. "Has it been thoroughly planned? I will not allow the same outcome as two months ago. The lie of the Tevouins' involvement suits my purposes well enough, but the fact remains that ninety of my best knights died of dehydration in the desert, accomplishing nothing."

"I sent scouts weeks ago to survey possible routes. They have recently returned with reports of several promising venues."

"And you know where the desert devils are camped now?"

"Yes, sire, and they are greatly reduced in number. It will be an easy victory."

"Good." Cyrus nodded thoughtfully and paused. "Sir Cedric seems to have taken a dangerous interest in the fate of the Tevouins."

The advisor glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder. They were still alone in the corridor.

"Should I have him taken care of, your highness?" he asked carefully.

Cyrus nodded.

"Do it quietly," he said, then stopped to consider. "But not too quietly. There are many on the council who are swayed by his bleeding heart."

"His fate will be an excellent example for them, my king."

"One can only hope," Cyrus said, sighing with the air of a father whose wayward children were misbehaving.

"Indeed," the advisor agreed. They reached a split in the corridor and parted ways without another word. Both remained entirely unaware of the keen ears listening from behind a cracked door.

The maid in the shadows held her breath for almost a minute, waiting for the footsteps to fade completely. Finally, she slipped into the corridor and raced noiselessly in the opposite direction.

* * *

_(Author's Note: I'll admit that I'm rather glad to be able to finally post this.)_


	41. Stay

"_Stay in the light; let it guide you. Stay in the peace; let it find you. Stay in the hope; let it fill you. Stay in the love; it can save you." _

_--An old blessing_

Julia had been a maid in the Asherian castle since her thirteenth birthday. Since then, she had kept her head down, her mouth closed, and her ears open. As a maid, it was easy to be overlooked, and being overlooked had its advantages. For instance, when the king was plotting the murder of her cousin, Sir Cedric, she could warn him before it was too late.

"I'm sure you misheard, Julia," Cedric said, glancing nervously over his shoulder despite himself. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into a nearby storeroom.

"I didn't _mishear_ anything!" Julia insisted as her cousin shut the door softly. "You have to believe me."

"Shhh," Cedric hissed. "Someone will hear you."

"You _do_ believe me."

"Of course I do," Cedric answered, leaning against the door and running a shaky hand through his hair.

"Well, what are you going to do?"

"I have to leave. It's the only choice I have."

"Leave? Where will you go? Maybe you can reason with the king."

Cedric smiled ruefully and shook his head.

"There's no reasoning with King Cyrus."

"What did you do, anyway?" Julia crossed her arms and eyed him carefully. Cedric had been knighted at age eighteen and had been appointed to the king's council at twenty-seven. In five years, he had never stirred up even a word of controversy, and now the king had put a death sentence on his head.

Cedric rubbed his forehead wearily.

"I defended the Tevouins in council."

"The desert devils?" Julia frowned. "Why?"

"Honestly, I don't know. But it doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"I suppose not." Julia bit her lip and looked down. "So, you're leaving then?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Now. Stay out of trouble, Julia." He kissed her briefly on the forehead and turned to pull open the door.

"Wait! What about me?" she demanded. "You can't expect me to stay here."

"I do expect you to stay here. It's the safest place for you."

"_Safe_? With the king handing out death warrants?"

"Shhh!" Cedric pushed the door shut again and whirled around. "Keep your voice down. I promise I'll send for you when things settle down. But you have to stay out of trouble until then, and around here, that means—"

"Staying quiet," Julia finished unhappily. "Fine, I'll stay. You had better not forget about me, though."

"Impossible," Cedric replied with a tight smile, and left.

Julia spent a few minutes absently wiping a rag over the shelves and pondering her cousin's fate, as well as her own. Then she left too, glancing compulsively over her shoulder as she slipped down the corridor.

* * *

The downpour over the Great Desert had finally ceased. The sky remained a livid indigo in color, bruised with the abuse of recent thunder and lightning. Below, the Tevouin camp stirred as if from an uneasy slumber. Tevouins began leaving their tents one by one, staring listlessly at the sky and at each other. Conversations were unsteady and brief. There was really nothing to be said.

A safe distance from any prying or tear-stained eyes, Kat fastened her loaded saddlebags onto a horse. The horse snorted impatiently and stamped its hooves in the damp sand. Kat shushed the animal and rubbed her fingers down its nose. She took a deep breath and glanced once over her shoulder toward the Tevouin camp—the only home she had ever known.

Rowe was standing behind her, arms crossed. Kat looked away immediately and mounted the horse.

"Where are you going?" Rowe asked, without expression. He was wet from head to toe, and Kat wondered what he had been doing out in the storm. Not that she really cared.

"I'm leaving," she answered flatly, matching his lack of expression. She reached into one of her saddle bags and tossed a small pale brick to Rowe. "It's Jason's whetting stone; I borrowed it last week. He'll be asking for it."

Rowe caught it and immediately tossed it back to her.

"Give it to him yourself. When are you coming back?"

"I'm not coming back," Kat fired back rapidly, flinging the stone onto the ground with a hint of temper. "Leave it in the sand for all I care."

Rowe stepped forward and grabbed her horse's reins.

"You should stay," he said quietly, not bothering to ask why she was leaving. That was obvious enough.

"Stay?" Kat scoffed. "I should _stay_? What am I staying for, Rowe? What's left for me here?"

"The Tevouins are your family!"

"And most of them are dead. Astra, Dobbs…Owen…" Kat shook her head. "I can't stay here."

"Where will you go?"

"South."

"The dark lands?" Rowe asked incredulously.

"Rather fitting, don't you think?" Kat muttered.

"And what exactly do you hope to find there?"

"Oh, shut up, Rowe. Go live your life, and just forget about me."

"That's going to be impossible."

"You'll manage. Now let go of my bloody horse."

Rowe shook his head at her eternally insufferable attitude, but released the reins. There was no stopping her now, and he wasn't even sure if he should.

Kat hesitated, glancing between Rowe and the Tevouin camp.

"Jason's whetting stone?" she asked, grudgingly revealing the fact that she _did_ care whether or not it was returned to the boy.

"I'll give it to him," Rowe promised, picking it up.

Kat nodded curtly, looking mildly relieved. There was a look about her, as if she wanted to say something more, but she rode away without another word. She never looked back.

* * *

On the _Celeritas_, Saria had to find her sea legs all over again. Flip, the first mate, had a jolly time teasing her about it too. He would follow her around, catching her elbows when she would fall, singing little ditties about landlubbers, and generally lifting her spirits—though she had decided at the outset of the voyage to be unhappy throughout.

"Don't you have work to do?" she asked him once.

"Naw, miss. The crew takes care of the hard labor, and the captain—" He gestured toward the stern, where Captain Roth manned the helm with a brooding expression. "Well, when the captain gets into one of his _moods_, then it's best to leave him to his thoughts—which leaves me with nothing to do but follow the little lady 'round the deck and keep her entertained."

"And you're doing a wonderful job," Saria said with a smile.

"Aye, Flip," chimed one of the nearby sailors. "Looks like mighty hard work there, entertaining the _lady_. Why don't you quit playing gentleman and start doing some real work?" The man swung a large sack over his back, making sure that his load smacked the first mate across the shoulder.

"Hey!" Flip exclaimed, ducking as another sailor shouldered his load in a pointedly reckless way. "This is important work."

"Sure," muttered a sailor. "And it's all you've been doing since her _ladyship _came aboard."

"More work for the rest of us ain't fair at all," said another.

"We ain't doing more work than usual," one of the more reasonable men pointed out, but he was immediately silenced by the glares of his comrades.

"All this talk isn't getting any work done at all," Flip said cautiously. Saria had never seen him lose his good humor before.

The sailors ignored him.

"Eight years I've been on this ship, and the captain ain't never taken a passenger, least of all a _wench_," a sailor muttered.

"And we never came across a storm that the cap'n couldn't outrun—at least until he let the girl aboard," one said musingly.

Saria bit her lip and moved closer to Flip as the sailors began to glare in her direction.

"Miss, maybe you ought to head to the stern," Flip said quietly to her, nudging her in that direction. "I'll handle this."

Saria didn't argue and made her way to the stern at a pace only slightly slower than a full sprint.

"They sound pretty upset," she said nervously to Roth, who hadn't budged.

"It was bound to happen," he said unconcernedly. "The open sea has a way of grating on a man's nerves. Generally it only takes one small nuisance to push him into madness." He glanced at Saria, as if to suggest that she was the nuisance in question.

"You aren't worried?" Saria was very worried. The murmurs on deck were evolving into angry accusations, and Flip suddenly seemed very small in comparison to the burly seamen around him.

"It's happened before. Flip always talks them down."

"Isn't that your job?" Saria couldn't imagine living every day around people who could turn on her at any given moment.

Roth smiled barely.

"I'm the captain. It's my job to toss them in the brig or, if necessary, overboard. However, I'd prefer a full crew to half of one, so it's the first mate's job to talk sense into the mutinous dogs."

Saria took a deep breath and watched as Flip laughed nervously about something that he'd just said. The sailors weren't laughing. A few more words were exchanged, and a few sailors shot murderous glances toward the stern. The negotiation didn't seem to be going well.

Someone threw a punch at Flip, and before Saria could blink, the deck had devolved into a mad brawl. It was the crew against their first mate.

"Has _that_ happened before?" Saria demanded breathlessly.

"Hold the helm," Roth ordered. He cleared the steps leading down to the deck in one bound and dove into the affray without hesitation.

Despite his unaffected demeanor, the captain obviously knew his way around a fight. He pulled two seamen out of the pile by their collars, decking one with his fist when the man tried to rejoin the brawl. A few of the sailors pulled back when they saw the captain, but several were too invested to stop now.

Saria could only hold the helm steady and watch dumbly as the fight intensified. A sick feeling crept into her gut as she realized just how outnumbered Roth and Flip really were. They held their own for a full minute, but the crew members had the advantage, and it wasn't long before the violence died down. The group thinned out, and Saria strained to see what was happening.

Both Captain Roth and his first mate were pinned to the deck by sailors, and a hush fell over the seamen, as if they had just realized the magnitude of what had occurred. Flip was struggling furiously, but Roth remained cool and reserved as ever. Saria could barely make out what he was saying.

"Stand down immediately, and we can forget this ever happened." It was a ridiculous statement, since he had obviously lost all semblance of control over his men, but Captain Roth had run out of options.

"It's for your own good, Cap'n," one of the men said. He sounded mildly horrified—mutiny could have that effect on a man.

"Aye," said another. "The wench has you under a spell or some such. We had to stop the madness before something worse than that storm befalls us."

"There's some madness going around, that's for certain," Flip muttered, earning himself a good shake.

"It's our _duty_ to protect the _Celeritas _from the bad luck the girl brought," a sailor said. He seemed to be reassuring himself.

"Aye!" cried one of his comrades. "Someone get the girl."

Saria's world screeched to a halt, and she suddenly missed Alden more than she ever had before. He would know a way out of this. He had never let her down before.

Two of the sailors headed for the stern, and Saria realized two things with jolting clarity. She was on her own, and that meant she was going to have to figure a way out of this on her own.

She was terrified.

Almost without thinking, she shoved the wooden wedge into place that would hold the helm steady, like Flip had taught her. Then she raced in the opposite direction of the two sailors, toward the other set of stairs that led to the deck. Saria wasn't sure what she was going to do quite yet, but avoiding the burly seamen coming after her seemed an excellent first move.

She took the steps two at a time, tripped on her skirt at the bottom, and almost landed flat on her face, but she managed to catch her balance and make it to mid-ship. Captain Roth and Flip were several feet away, and the entire crew loomed before her.

There was a split-second hesitation, wherein nothing was said and no one moved. An idea flicked into Saria's head, and before she could think through the validity of it, she spoke.

"Stand down immediately!" she ordered—loudly, so as to mask the tremor in her voice.

Another stunned moment passed. The seamen stared at her in silence. She knew she had to speak quickly, before they gathered their wits.

"You will immediately release the captain and first mate, and do as I say. I'm taking command of this vessel."

Someone guffawed.

Saria's royal instincts took over. She stamped her foot and shouted.

"Be _quiet_, and obey me. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"A landlubbin' girl?" one of the men asked with a chuckle, and stepped forward to confront her.

Every bone in Saria's body wanted to back away, but she held her ground and looked him in the eye. A princess needn't fear anyone.

"I am Saria Aceline Christiana Rachelle, Crown Princess of Asher. You will obey me this instant." She straightened her posture and held herself in the way that Madame Porter had been engraining on her since infancy. No one would be able to deny the air of royalty about her.

The man took a step back, brows knitted in confusion.

"It ain't true," someone said, sounding entirely unsure of himself.

"How dare you defy me?" Saria demanded. Inexplicably, she was beginning to enjoy herself. It wasn't too hard to imitate her father. "King Cyrus employed this vessel to escort me on a mission of the utmost importance and secrecy. Your captain was bound by law to reveal my identity and purpose to no one, despite his assurances that his crew was loyal and honorable to the highest degree."

She swept a regal gaze across the lot of them, trying to look as if she were sizing them up. It seemed to be working, and several of the men were removing their caps and looking at their feet. Some of the sailors remained unconvinced, and Saria sighed inwardly. This would be worlds easier if any of these men had so much as set foot in the royal province. The king's likeness was everywhere, but his daughter didn't receive nearly as much recognition.

She tossed her hair imperiously over her shoulder, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart inside her chest.

"Captain Roth, please explain to your men that what I say is true." She waved offhandedly in his direction and looked elsewhere, mimicking Cyrus's habit of not making eye contact with those below him—which was everyone.

"Cap'n?" one of the men prodded disbelievingly.

"It's the truth," Roth said. "Now let me up, you treacherous dogs, before her majesty has you all thrown overboard."

The men obeyed numbly, clearly not in a state of mind to wonder who would be doing the throwing if Saria did command such a thing.

"Resume your posts," Saria said dismissively. "If this voyage is completed without another _incident_, then the king will hear firsthand of your valor." She only hoped that none of them would decide that holding her for a royal ransom would be even better than a commendation to the king.

One by one, the men broke away to attend to their duties, until only Saria, Flip, and Captain Roth remained mid-ship.

"Impressive," Roth said lightly, still managing to look unimpressed, as always. He returned to the helm without another word.

Flip squeezed her shoulder and chuckled.

"I declare, miss. I never would have thought you had it in you."

"Thanks, Flip," Saria said with a weak smile. She suddenly felt exhausted. She had never taken charge in her life—it felt both exhilarating and debilitating. With a glance eastward, she wished that Alden could have been here to see it. Though, if he had been here, she doubted she would have stepped up as she had—as she never thought she could.

Saria smiled again, this time to herself.


	42. Part four: Guilt

"_It is often impossible to assign guilt and innocence to their proper places. Our heroes are often marred by past sins—and our villains are often fighting for something worth fighting for._

_--Avalyn, noted Tevouin philosopher_

In the Great Desert, the twelfth day in the Month of the Lilac passed exactly like the eleventh day, and the tenth, and the ninth. The sweltering sun rose high in the sky, banishing the last memories of rain from the air. A light wind danced across the oceanic dunes, stirring the shimmering sands like red waves.

Nightfall brought an uncomfortable stillness over the Tevouin camp, as it had every day since that one terrible night when everything had gone so wrong. Common meals had been abandoned. Tradition seemed pointless now, and the thought of celebration seemed profane. It had been two weeks since the devastation, and still the presence of death suffocated the desert dwellers.

"Has anyone seen Kat?" Jason had been wandering the camp for an hour, poking his head into tents and asking the same question. So far the answers had been a blend of blank stares and shaking heads. There were also several who threatened his wellbeing if he didn't leave them alone immediately.

He backed out of a tent housing a particularly cross old couple, turned, and ran straight into Rowe.

"Hi," Jason said uncertainly, mentally running through the list of rules he had broken recently and trying to decide if any of the misdeeds were bad enough to warrant Rowe's attention. "Have you seen—"

"Here," Rowe handed him the whetting stone. "She asked me to give it back to you."

"Where is she?" Jason asked suspiciously.

"She left…for good."

"What do you mean? You mean she isn't coming back? Where'd she go?" Jason paused to take a breath. "Why?"

Rowe shook his head.

"I guess the world around here got too small for her."

"That's dumb," Jason declared. "And it doesn't make any sense. The Great Desert is huge."

Rowe smiled ruefully and glanced around the diminished camp.

"You'll understand one day, kid."

"Well, I ain't ever gonna leave," Jason declared. "I'm gonna to live in the Great Desert my whole life."

"Careful. You don't want to make promises you can't keep." Rowe patted his shoulder in farewell and began to walk away.

Jason chased after him.

"What makes you think I can't keep it?" he demanded, matching Rowe's stride.

"A lifetime is a pretty long commitment," Rowe said mildly, deciding to ignore the fact that, in a world of treachery and radicals and poison, a lifetime could actually be very brief.

"So what?" Jason remarked. "Lots of people live here their whole lives and never want to leave. You have."

Rowe flashed an expression that was somewhere between a grin and a grimace.

"Well, I had my fill of the outside world at an early age," he said.

Jason didn't notice his underlying reaction and launched into a ramble about all the heroic things he was going to do when he became a captain, and how he wouldn't even be _allowed _toleave because everyone would love him so much.

"Kylie always tells me that I should become something more useful than a captain," he explained earnestly. "But I can't think of anything more useful than a captain, because _you're_ a captain, and you never look bored, and everyone likes you—well, except Kylie, but she's no fun, and I think that—"

"Wait," Rowe said suddenly, waving at Jason to be quiet. "You see that?"

They were near the edge of camp, and in the distance a small dark shape was gaining detail as it neared.

"Horse and rider?" Jason guessed.

"Looks like it." Rowe studied the stars for a few moments. "That's due north. He's coming from Asher."

"Want me to find Danni?"

Danni was the only other captain still breathing. Rowe nodded.

"Don't come back with her," he ordered. "Stay with your sister."

"Kylie?" Jason asked in a voice dangerously close to a whine. "Why?"

"Just go." Rowe spun him around and shoved him in the proper direction.

The eleven year-old muttered unhappily under his breath, but obeyed. Rowe gripped his sword hilt to calm his nerves and watched the incoming rider warily. Normally, newcomers to the camp did not warrant alarm. The Tevouin camp was composed mainly of dissatisfied citizens and soldiers looking for freedom and a better life. However, the last arrival had wiped out more than half the camp, so Rowe was resolved to make sure that whoever was nearing the camp now wouldn't have the same opportunity.

"Trouble?" Danni asked breathlessly, still strapping on her sword as she raced up beside him.

"Probably not," Rowe said, but he couldn't relax.

The rider was near enough that the two captains could see the aspects of his horse and attire.

"Charger," Danni commented. "A knight?"

"He's wearing red," Rowe said. "That's Asherian nobility."

"Disgruntled lord?"

"We'll see soon enough."

The man reined in his horse, eyeing the two Tevouins uncertainly.

"I need to see your leader," he said.

"Nice to meet you too," Rowe said lightly. "Do you mind if we don't skip the introductions?"

The man hesitated.

"I'm Sir Cedric of Asher," he said at length. "I am—or _was_—on the advisory council of the king."

"How lovely for you," Danni replied dryly. "Did you get lost?"

"I don't have time for this," Cedric snapped. "I must see your leader immediately."

"You know, if you're trying to assassinate someone, there are subtler ways to go about it," Rowe said.

"I'm not an assassin," Cedric said, sounding frustrated. "I bring news of the utmost urgency. You must show me to your leader _now_." He dismounted and turned to face them.

Both Danni and Rowe had their swords at his throat. Several moments passed.

"Listen to me," Cedric said carefully, maintaining his composure with admirable mettle. "The king has put a death warrant on my head because I defended the Tevouins in council. I barely escaped with my life, and I should be fleeing to the northern countries—or further—but I knew I had to come here and warn you of the king's plot. So, if you're going to kill me and eat my liver, at least let me talk to your leader first."

"Eat your liver?" Danni echoed, barely biting back a laugh. "Is that what we're doing now?"

"The last I heard, we were chopping off the hands of hostages and feeding them to our young," Rowe said. They both chuckled.

Cedric watched them with a furrowed brow, unsure what to think.

"We aren't going to eat any of your body parts," Danni assured, sheathing her sword. "Though, if you're lying, we definitely might chop something off."

"I'm not lying," Cedric said.

"Are you willing to swear on your ear?" Rowe asked with a glint in his eye. "Because that will probably be the first thing to go."

"I'm not lying," Cedric repeated, slightly discomfited by their manner.

"Wonderful," Rowe said. He lowered his sword, but didn't sheath it quite yet. "What evil scheme has Cyrus concocted this time?"

Cedric looked between them indecisively.

"I need to speak to your—"

"Leader, I know," Rowe finished. "We got that much, but I'm afraid that Danni and I are the most important people you get to see—at least until we decide if you're worth the trouble."

Cedric still looked hesitant, but he launched into his story anyway. By the time he had finished, Danni and Rowe were both silent with astonishment.

"His whole army?" Danni managed finally. "Coming here?"

Cedric nodded.

"Cyrus wants this battle to be the last one. He's planned everything, down to every waterhole the army will camp at along the way."

"The northwest waterhole is tainted," Rowe said. "They won't make it any further than that."

Cedric shook his head grimly.

"He's been sending out scouts for months. They know that it's poisoned and have adjusted the route."

Danni held her head.

"The whole army…" she muttered. "Rowe, we have to—"

"Tell the luminaries—I know." Rowe looked at Cedric. "Looks like you get to meet the leaders after all. Hand over your weapons."

"I'm not armed."

"Are you going to get offended if we don't take your word for it?" Rowe asked. His expression wavered on the brink of a grin.

Cedric frowned slightly. He didn't like the feeling that these two young Tevouins were toying with him.

"Well," he began testily. "It looks like you're going to have to—" He didn't get a chance to finish, because at that moment Rowe glanced at Danni, who nodded once, and in the space of a breath Cedric found himself face-down in the sand with his arm twisted uncomfortablybehind his back and Danni's foot between his shoulder blades.

"She can break your arm without any trouble at all," Rowe said conversationally, searching Cedric for weapons and then moving to explore the contents of his saddle bags. "Try not to give her reason to."

"This is insane," Cedric snapped. "There isn't _time_."

"A thousand soldiers can't march across the Great Desert in one night," Danni said.

"I left five days ago, and there are two thousand," Cedric corrected, spitting out sand.

Danni paled slightly.

"A bit of an overkill, isn't it?" Rowe muttered. "There are only three hundred of us left."

Danni shot Rowe a glare for revealing such sensitive information.

"Relax," Rowe told her as he finished digging through the saddle bags. "He's telling the truth."

Danni dropped Cedric's arm and stepped away. He climbed to his feet.

"Can I see your leader _now_?" he asked, dusting himself off.

"Luminaries," Rowe corrected automatically.

"There's more than one?" Cedric asked skeptically.

"Well, we considered erecting a king and an aristocracy," Rowe said. "But we figured that sort of defeated the purpose of seceding from the monarchy."

Cedric fell silent. Danni smiled and shook her head.

"Let's go," she said.

* * *

The _Celeritas _made it to the Asherian port without another incident. The sailors bustled about the deck, heaving sails and towing lines in order to dock the ship. The sky over Asher was clear tonight, revealing the moon and stars in all their majesty and brilliance. Saria stood at the bow, out of the way of everyone, watching the moonlit mainland of her country with new appreciation and a special sort of dread.

When she left Asher, everything had been simple. All she had to do was find a cure to save Jackson. Now, upon her return, she had the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders, and she realized that there were higher stakes in this world than she had ever recognized before. Alden was still in the Forbidden East, and she had to traverse the Asherian countryside alone toward an uncertain future at the castle.

She wanted to crawl in a corner and hide. She didn't want to face the new world she had discovered. She missed simplicity.

Regardless of her feelings on the matter, the _Celeritas_ did finally dock, and the time came to leave the ship and step into her uncertain future.

Saria paused at the top of the gangplank. In her hands she clutched her ratty knapsack, which held the few items that had managed to make it from the castle to the Forbidden East and back again—a comb, a dirty handkerchief, a waterskin, and a handful of gold coins.

With slow, apprehensive steps, she made it down the plank. She found it difficult to stand, after so long on the unsteady waves. Several times she had to stop, eyes closed, to try to recover a sense of stability. She hated the feeling that the world was rocking like a cradle around her and made a silent promise to not step foot on another ship for a very long time.

Captain Roth was standing on the dock, exchanging words with Flip. Flip nodded emphatically at whatever was said and skipped away, tipping his hat to Saria as he left. They had already said their goodbyes.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Saria said to Roth. She knew that he wasn't one for formalities, but she felt that she couldn't leave without saying something.

Captain Roth eyed her silently for a few seconds and then handed her a small, torn book.

"Here," he said flatly. "One of my crew members found it on board when we docked in the East."

Saria looked down unbelievingly at the journal in her hands—Dawson Roth's journal. He had made it to the East and back again, and now that she had done the same, the journal of his travels seemed even more incredible.

She looked up at Roth.

"Did you read it?" she asked softly.

Captain Roth hesitated for a moment, but nodded.

"He lied to me," he said without inflection. "I've spent my whole life blaming him for my mother's death."

"He wanted to protect you," Saria insisted. "He didn't want you to think that her death was _your_ fault."

"I know," Roth replied, staring at the journal for a long moment. "I suppose he would have told me that eventually, if I hadn't run away and never given him the chance."

"He would be proud of you," Saria said. She couldn't know that, but it had to be said.

"He was a fool." Roth shook his head but smiled lightly. "I miss him."

Saria took a deep breath.

"Here," she said, shoving the journal back into his hands. "You should have it. Maybe you can get to know him better."

Roth stared at his father's journal for a long while and finally nodded.

"Good luck with whatever trouble you get yourself into next," he told her.

"Good luck with your mutinous crew," she responded.

Captain Roth smiled and returned to his ship.

Saria turned to face the port town, glad that there was some closure in this world after all. Her good mood didn't last for long though. The night was young, and the town stirred before her in a cacophony of activity. She suddenly felt very alone.

* * *

King Cyrus was having dinner alone in the dining hall when the former general of Silvern stormed through the doors and shouted:

"Are you mad?!" Grey slammed his fist down on the table's edge.

Far at the head of the table, Cyrus picked up his goblet of wine and took an unconcerned sip.

"Please explain to me why I should not have you forcibly removed by my incompetent guards," the king said lightly, sawing at a piece of meat with his knife.

The guards that Grey had pushed his way past looked at each other uncertainly, trying to decide if their careers were going to be cut short.

"There is an entire army marching across the Asher," Grey said.

"Mine," Cyrus answered simply, still focused on his dinner. "Or at least I hope so." He looked pointedly at the guards, who recognized their cue to chuckle at his wry humor.

"What war are you planning on fighting, your highness?" Grey asked, managing to compose himself slightly. He still ground his teeth with the title.

"It is not a war that concerns you," Cyrus answered around a bite of meat. "I plan to rid myself of the desert devil infestation for good."

"They aren't rats," Grey snapped. "And they haven't _done_ anything."

"They refuse to recognize their king," Cyrus returned, with a hint of fire.

"There are innocents among them! Women! Children!"

"Innocence or guilt is not my concern. It is my duty to sustain my country—if that calls for a slaughter of rebels, then so be it."

"You would murder innocents for your cause?"

"You wouldn't? To save Silvern—how far would you go, General?"

Silence blanketed the room. Grey looked down as a nauseating realization crept over him. The pouch full of _ylpera _still weighed heavily in his vest, burning a hole straight through his heart.

_How far would you go?_

"Not this far," Grey murmured, suddenly broken, and yet stronger than he had felt in years. He looked at Cyrus. "Not this far," he repeated with conviction.

"And that is why Silvern lies in ruins, while Asher grows only stronger." Cyrus stood up and motioned to his guards. "I am willing to do whatever it takes to preserve my country."

"Don't you mean to preserve your power?" Grey asked with derision, barely noticing the guards that grabbed his arms forcibly.

"It's too bad that Silvern did not agree to a merger when she had the chance," Cyrus said, settling back to his dinner. "The time for alliances has ended, and you, my friend, are on the wrong side of the table."

The cold snap of iron on his wrists roused Grey to the realization that he was being shackled. Cyrus chuckled and took another sip of wine.

"Silvern is weak without a king. Her citizens will be looking for a savior, and I can certainly save them."

"They won't support you," Grey said with certainty. "And Silvern's knights will never pledge allegiance."

"Then I'll destroy them as well," Cyrus said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It is of little importance to me. Either way, I will soon be king of two countries, and that is the makings of an empire."

King Cyrus went back to his meal, and his guards dragged the new prisoner down to the dungeons. Over the Asherian countryside, the moon shone brightly on two thousand knights as they marched steadily toward the Great Desert.

* * *

(Author's Note: To whom it may concern--which is everyone--Kat's dramatic departure is not the last you'll see of her. Her character has been passed along to Slipshod, who will be using her at some point in some story. So, if you like Kat and wish to see her soon, you need to do two things: read Slipshod's stuff and flatter her endlessly for her brilliance, and then send her several PMs flattering her further and begging her to post something soon for my--err...everyone's sake.)


	43. Inevitability

"_Everything we do is haunted by that shadow named Inevitability. I speak with perfect confidence when I say that with every success there is inevitably a failure that follows. Though we must remember that the opposite is also true—with every failure, we are bound, inevitably, to have a success." _

_--__Ageless Philosophies for a Perpetual Society_

The news of King Cyrus's approaching army spread quickly through the Tevouin camp. The general consensus was to run fast and far. It was their only chance at survival. There were barely a hundred trained fighters left in the ranks, and the rumors of Tevouin might and magic were just that—rumors. For several generations, they had eked out an existence under the blanket of these rumors and in the relative safety of the Great Desert, but now that those defenses were failing, it was time to move on.

"This doesn't feel right," Drake insisted to Rowe, who was supervising as some boys looped rope around the necks of the remaining cattle, tethering the animals to each other for the long trip ahead.

Rowe shrugged.

"The animals get along fine. I'm sure they appreciate your concern though."

"That's _not_ what I'm talking about," Drake said testily.

Rowe glanced sideways at him, trying to decide if Drake was really as devoid of humor as he let on.

"I know."

"I can't believe you're just going to run away."

"I'm sure all your royal tutors taught you otherwise, but we're not warmongers. We just want to live in peace."

"That's why the Outskirts are set up like training grounds?"

Annoyance flashed briefly across Rowe's features.

"We defend ourselves when we must," he said tightly, turning his head.

Drake looked frustrated, but he managed to keep his tone benign.

"All I'm trying to say is that if you run now, you'll always be running."

"You're right. We should make a heroic last stand, and while Cyrus's knights are slaughtering the children we can console ourselves with the fact that we didn't run away."

There was a beat of silence.

"It just doesn't feel right," Drake repeated softly.

"Feel free to stay," Rowe answered curtly. "I'll even leave you a sword." He walked away.

Drake sighed and ran his fingers through his dark hair, which had grown increasingly unruly over the past two months. He wanted to be irritated, but the emotion in his chest was more of a grating hopelessness. Ravyn came up beside him.

"What was that about?" she asked, watching Rowe's retreating figure.

"A difference of principles," Drake answered, not willing to elaborate further, despite his sister's inquisitive gaze.

For several minutes they watched the movement of the camp in silence. Dusk was falling fast, and by nightfall the Tevouins would be prepared to leave the southeastern oasis behind, perhaps never to return.

"Do you think…" Drake started suddenly, but trailed off.

"What?"

"Do you think Silvern will be all right?"

Ravyn considered.

"I don't know," she answered frankly. "What do you think?"

Drake shook his head.

"I can't just leave it behind. There has to be something…" He trailed off again and stared at the northwest horizon, as if Silvern itself would send the answer across the warm sands.

As Ravyn watched his mind turn over and over, she realized that even though their time with the Tevouins had changed Drake dramatically, in some ways he was still very much the same. Silvern was still a part of his existence—something he couldn't quite separate from, despite the tempting freedom of the Tevouins.

Ravyn couldn't understand it. Silvern had rejected them, and the Tevouins had accepted them. In her mind, it was quite simple to detach from one and embrace the other. But then, she had never been part of Silvern as Drake had. As the royal heir, Silvern was his past, present, and future. Every mountain, stream, and village—every inch of that austere sky—was infused in his blood.

The Tevouins were merely a waypoint for him—just another lesson to learn, like the lecture of a tutor or the instruction in a book. In the end, though, he had to find his way back home.

"You're going to go back, aren't you." Ravyn said quietly.

Drake stared at the horizon for several more seconds, and then he looked at her.

"Cyrus will take advantage of Silvern's weakness, and I can't let that happen. I have to go."

"Then I'm coming with you."

Drake didn't seem surprised.

* * *

When Saria walked into the portside tavern, one of the last people in the world that she expected to see was Rhodry. Yet there he was, seated on a barstool and sipping water, just as she and Alden had left him.

"I thought you would have gone home by now," she said, sitting down next to him.

He looked sideways at her.

"I thought you would have been dead by now," he replied. "Where's Alden?"

"He had…unfinished business in the East."

"So you actually made it?"

"Of course we did." Saria tried to match his unaffected tone, but she knew she was beaming.

"Of course you did," Rhodry echoed with a smile.

"So were you planning on staying here forever?" Saria prodded.

Rhodry shrugged.

"Good food." He glanced sideways at her again. "And you? Don't you have a castle to be getting home to?"

"I just stopped to buy some provisions. I'll be headed back soon." Saria pressed her lips together and sneaked a quick look at Rhodry. She rather hoped that he would offer to go back with her. The thought of traveling the Asherian countryside alone was not a particularly agreeable one.

"Do you hear that?" Rhodry asked suddenly.

Saria raised her eyebrows and peered around the tavern. She could hear plenty of things—sailors laughing and telling bawdry jokes, barmaids calling out orders, an off-key fiddler playing in the corner—nothing to explain the stricken look on Rhodry's face.

"What's wrong?" she asked, as he jumped off his seat.

"I made some…ahh…new friends while you were gone." Rhodry dug hastily through his pockets until he found a few coins to toss onto the counter. "They don't like me very much."

He headed for the back door. Saria frowned and followed him. She glanced over her shoulder once before pulling the door closed. Several large and rowdy sailors were piling in through the front door, hooting at the barmaids and shouting for a round of drinks.

"How did you know they were coming?" Saria asked, once they were safely into the cool night air.

"They are obnoxiously loud, in case you didn't notice."

"So is the tavern; I couldn't hear _anything_ over the noise. There's no way that you—"

"Sure, sure." Rhodry waved dismissively in her direction and peered surreptitiously through the tavern window. "There's no way I could have heard or known, and you're going to grill me about it incessantly, and in the end I'm not going to tell you anything anyway—so can we just skip to the part where we start running?"

"Running?" Saria asked, confused. "Why?"

"Because one of them just saw me." Rhodry backed away from the window, grabbed Saria's wrist, and started sprinting down the alley.

Saria gathered her skirts in one hand and struggled to keep up. She could hear the tavern door flying open behind them, and angry shouts followed them down the street.

"What did you _do_?" she demanded breathlessly.

"I might have gotten into a fight with one of them last night—and won."

"You _might _have?"

"He called me a drunk; I called him a bloody imbecile. It all went downhill from there."

They ducked around a corner, and Rhodry paused, leaning heavily against the wall.

"In retrospect," he gasped out, clearly winded. "Perhaps I should have let him win. I'm getting too old for this."

"You've done this sort of thing before?"

Rhodry just laughed shortly.

"I think we lost them," he said, by way of reply.

Of course, at that moment, one of the sailors stepped around the corner and drilled his fist into Rhodry's gut. Rhodry doubled over, and the other seamen caught up.

"What's your hurry?" one of them sneered. "We never finished our conversation from last night."

"Well," Rhodry began with a lopsided grin, straightening up. "Once you fell unconscious, I figured it was safe to call the conversation over."

The sailor scowled. His bruised face, black eye, and busted lip were clearly visible, even in the dim moonlight.

"You ain't nothin' but a rotten drunk who got lucky," one of the others said.

"I'm not drunk," Rhodry said evenly.

"Shut up." The sailor in front of him grabbed his collar and shook him. "You won't be so lucky tonight."

"Fine," Rhodry managed to look unperturbed. He looked at Saria. "You should head home now."

Saria nodded slowly and started backing away. One of the sailors caught her arm.

"No, you should stay. This won't take long," the man said, jerking her close. He smelled of sea salt and cheap ale.

Saria's breath froze in her throat, and she tried in vain to wrench her arm free.

"Wait a second," Rhodry said, pushing against the sailors' hands that held him against the wall. "Let's stay civil here."

"Civil, of course," the man said, catching Saria's chin in his hand. "I'll be the perfect gentleman."

Saria slapped him as hard as she could—twice—and when that didn't faze him, she kneed him in the groin. The man cried out and doubled over, and Saria pulled away from him.

"Rhodry!" she cried.

"Right." Rhodry twisted his arm free and punched the nearest sailor in the throat. Then he ducked the swinging fists of the other men, and raced with Saria down the alleyway.

"You're headed inland? Away from here?" he panted, once they had gained some distance.

"Yes," Saria gasped shortly. There was a stitch forming in her side.

"What a coincidence—so am I."

Had she the breath, Saria would have laughed out loud.

* * *

"I can understand your brother doing something this idiotic—that's true to form, but you—are you even listening to me?" Rowe grabbed both of Ravyn's hands and pulled her to face him. He was trying to talk sense into her, and she was saddling her horse instead of paying attention.

"Rowe, you aren't exactly a shining beacon when it comes to rational decision-making," Ravyn said calmly, with the utmost patience. She patted his cheek consolingly and turned back to her work.

"So you're just going to leave?" Rowe demanded. "After everything?"

There was a gleam in Ravyn's eye as she looked at him.

"What exactly are you trying to say?" she asked, knowing the answer, but just wanting to hear it from his lips.

"I want you to stay with me," Rowe said readily.

Ravyn smiled, reminded how refreshing his candid nature could be.

"I'll come back," she promised.

"We'll be gone."

"If Drake succeeds, then the Tevouins can come back to the desert."

"And if he doesn't?" The lack of trust he had in Drake's ability to succeed was no secret.

"Then we'll both be dead, and you need not worry about it," Ravyn answered tartly.

Rowe stared at her in exasperation for a moment, but wasn't ready to give up quite yet.

"The sedition is probably holding the castle. They tried to murder you, remember?"

"Yes, I remember," Ravyn replied. "But Owen seemed to be the leader, and he's dead. With any luck, they've given up."

"Why would they give up? They think you and Drake are dead. They've pretty much won at this point."

"Except that we aren't dead," Drake said, coming up beside Rowe.

"Which they'll be sure to remedy upon your return," Rowe shot back.

"Something has to be done," Drake said, matching the fire in Rowe's tone. "If I can get things under control again, then Cyrus will have to back down. We can't allow him to march his army around and take what he wants unchecked. It will only get worse."

"The Tevouins don't care what Cyrus does. Let him stomp around and make all the little wars he wants. We just want to live in peace."

"Do you really think that just because you elude him this time, he's going to leave the Tevouins alone?" Drake asked incredulously. "He'll send his army to Silvern next; that's for certain. After that, he'll push south. You won't be able to run forever. He has to be stopped."

"So try and stop him," Rowe snapped. "Just don't drag Ravyn along with you to the slaughter."

"Excuse me," Ravyn said pointedly. "I'm making my own decision here."

Before Rowe could reply, Sir Cedric led his horse up and looked between the three quizzically.

"Are we ready to leave?" he asked Drake, deciding to ignore the obvious discord that he had intruded upon.

"I can't believe you're buying into this madness too!" Rowe exclaimed.

"There are certain risks I'm willing to take, if it means stopping a tyrant from gaining more power," Cedric said coolly.

"Honestly, Rowe," Ravyn said with a roll of her eyes. "You're usually the first to join any sort of madness."

"Sure, when something can be accomplished!" He paused for a second. "Or when it's fun, but that's not the point."

"What exactly is your point?" Drake asked dryly.

"You're fighting inevitability itself. There is always one tyrant or another who is pushing his limits—hasn't history proved that?"

"I thought the Tevouins were against the monarchy," Cedric said.

"There's a difference between being against something and fighting against something. We live in the Great Desert so that we can escape the monarchy altogether. Wanting to somehow defeat it only breeds people like Owen, with poison and distorted ideals."

"That's all well and good," Cedric replied with a slight frown. "But hiding in the desert while evil flourishes is also, as you say, a distorted ideal. Cyrus is not just a tyrant, he's a murderer. You're suggesting that it's better to indulge him for the sake of a little safety, than it is to risk everything and stand up to him. You might as well be cheering him on."

His words fell like a hammer in the air, sealing the argument with glaring potency. Cedric knew what he was talking about. For five years he had been on the king's council, and every single day had been spent enabling the man's drive for power. He had finally reached the point when his conscience outweighed his need for survival.

Rowe stared back at Cedric wordlessly, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Ravyn could almost see his mind reeling backwards, back to his youth, back to a chance that he'd had to curb that evil, to save a life. She watched his thoughts flicker across that failure and then race forward across the years—every day another failure to set things right. Something like defeat flashed across his features, and her heart broke for him.

"Rowe," she began softly, touching his arm.

"Give me ten minutes," Rowe said. His voice was thick with restrained emotion. "I'm coming with you."

He went to find Danni and the luminaries to tell them what he had decided. They wouldn't agree or understand, but they wouldn't try to stop him.

Astra would have understood. Naima would have understood and agreed, as well as insisted on coming along—no, she wouldn't have insisted. She would have just come, because Naima never stayed behind, because Naima was _always_ there.

Except now.

Rowe had to steer his thoughts in a different direction, to avoid the familiar tightness clawing at the back of his throat. He felt a terrible sense of severance as he made his way through the last semblances of the camp. The Tevouins—his family—were headed south, toward an uncertain destination. If he separated from them now, there was a considerable chance that he wouldn't be able to find them again. The very thought made him sick to his stomach, but he refused to change his mind.

He had been running for a long time now. It was time to turn around and fight.


	44. Shadow

"_I never fear shadows. Where there is a shadow, there is also light. And where there is light, there is no hope for darkness to prevail."_

_--Avalyn, noted Tevouin philosopher_

"I'm sorry, your highness. Your brother is dead." The old doctor looked at the floor, at the ceiling—anywhere but at her.

Saria's heart lurched, and tears welled up in her eyes.

She jerked awake.

The darkness of Fairden Forest smothered her like a heavy blanket. She'd had the same nightmare every night since they had entered the forest three days ago, and every dream seemed more real than the last. Saria rolled onto her side and breathed rapidly through her mouth, trying to suppress the overwhelming nausea that gripped her.

Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and leaked into the corners of her mouth until she thought she would choke on the salty wetness. She knew the nightmare wasn't real, but it might as well have been. The tears were real enough, and so was the sickening panic that wracked her body.

"It's the forest," Rhodry muttered, without opening his eyes. "It's trying to break you."

"Well, it's working," Saria snapped, glancing around the foliage, which was shivering in the night breeze. "I thought the poison in the moss only worked once."

"It does, but Fairden has plenty of tricks up its sleeve…" He paused and propped himself up on his elbows. "Well, insomuch as a forest can have a sleeve."

Saria sat up slowly and cradled her head in her hands.

"I need to get back," she murmured. "Jackson needs me."

"Sounds more like you need him."

"How would you know anything about it?" Saria retorted hotly.

"You talk in your sleep every night—loudly. Pardon me for eavesdropping."

Saria squeezed her eyes shut and tried to sort through her muddled thoughts.

"Do you think we could ride for a few more hours?" she asked finally. "I just want to get out of here. I just want to get home."

Rhodry didn't say anything, but he climbed laboriously to his feet. Saria stood up as well, eager to leave and hoping that Fairden wouldn't throw anything worse than those few nightmares at them.

Though, considering the phantom grief that still echoed through her chest, Saria was having a hard time thinking of something worse.

* * *

Silvern had disintegrated into a shadow of itself.

Drake knew two months ago that poverty and ruin were gradually taking hold of his homeland, but he had never guessed that the turn of events sparked by his father's death would escalate so quickly into a downward spiral.

The mining towns on the outskirts of the country, which were once the central hub of Silvern's commerce, had been abandoned. The shafts which had once been doorways into the vast natural stores of silver, gold, and precious gems were boarded over. Silvern's veins of wealth had dried up long ago, leaving her citizens without their lifeblood. This had forced King Richard to trade his son to Asher, for a last chance at saving his kingdom. The sedition's scheme had successfully killed a king and disposed of his heirs, but the apparent price was Silvern's survival.

Drake had anticipated the death of the mining towns. It was the state of the villages and homesteads that made his stomach turn. Every day brought another settlement into view, and each one seemed more destitute than the last. The desertion of the mining towns had resulted in droves of citizens moving to the interior villages in search of work and food. But work and food were scarcer by the day, and the overcrowding had a devastating effect on the villages.

The stench of waste, disease, and death reached the travelers long before the villages were even in sight and followed them long after they had passed by. They kept off the main roads, which were populated with beggars and the most desperate citizens—those who had resorted to thievery in a last ditch attempt to feed themselves and their families.

Drake caught glimpses of the noble manors, nestled high in the hills, away from the common plight. No pennants were flying, as the lords and ladies probably feared showing any association with the fallen royalty. Most had probably taken all their worldly wealth and fled to more favorable economic climes.

Drake wondered offhandedly how many had been involved in the plot against the Crown. His father's murder, Ravyn's kidnapping, the attempt on their lives—it all seemed distant now and utterly insignificant. In the wake of Silvern's ruin, everything seemed insignificant. He doubted that the sedition had survived its leader's demise, else something would have been done to remedy Silvern's troubles. Hadn't that been the reason for all of this? Hadn't they thought that they could do for Silvern what King Richard failed to do, what Drake had never been given the chance to do?

Drake thought of Grey, for the first time in weeks. He wondered if he was dead, because though he had been wrong about the man in many ways, Drake knew that Grey wouldn't let Silvern suffer like this, not while there was a breath in his body. His own love for Silvern had been learned from Grey, who had loved it more than life.

He must be dead.

Drake didn't know what to think about that.

The four travelers had skirted all the villages on the week and a half journey from the Tevouin camp, unable to risk Ravyn and Drake being recognized. If the sedition still lurked, then detection would undoubtedly cut this whole venture quite short.

However, the town of Rynherst surrounded the base of the massive hill that the castle stood atop, and therefore could not be avoided. At Rowe's insistence, Drake and Ravyn kept the hoods of their cloaks up and their heads down.

"We'll just ride through without stopping," Rowe said as they neared Rynherst's front gates. "We can decide what to do next once we're safely through."

No one had any objections. It was a fairly direct route from the gates to the road that twisted around and up the hill. Rowe took the lead, keeping his horse at a quick pace through the rutted, filthy street. Drake tried to keep his head ducked low under the safety of his hood, but the condition of Rynherst stole his attention.

The citizens were like ghosts, watching them pass with hollow eyes, gaunt faces, and jutting ribcages. Hordes of vermin scurried through the streets, unafraid of the dispirited inhabitants. The town hall, which had once stood proudly gleaming, had been pillaged and left to ruin. Drake observed as a small band of scantily-clad, shrieking children maneuvered barefoot around the wreckage of a fallen, crumbling pillar. Their amusement seemed to be derived from hurling rocks at rats, birds, and even—on occasion—each other.

They momentarily ceased their game to stare wordlessly at the passersby. Drake's hood slipped off his head, and he hastily replaced it. None of the children seemed to notice. The oldest of the bunch, a shirtless boy with a head of grimy curls, hefted a rock the size of his fist and glowered at the four riders. His companions squealed and whispered excitedly, no doubt spurring him on. The boy grinned devilishly and reared his arm back to throw.

Rowe, who had yet to acknowledge the children with so much as a glance, jerked his horse around suddenly to face them.

"Try it, and I'll have your hand as a souvenir," he said, drilling the boy with a dangerous glare. With one hand, he pushed back his cloak to reveal the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip.

The rock fell from the boy's hand, and his companions started to scatter, frightened by either the threat or the distinct Tevouin accent, or both. The boy eyed Rowe with a mixture of disdain and curiosity for several seconds, but he finally chased after his comrades without a word.

"What happened to remaining unnoticed?" Drake demanded.

Rowe shrugged and nudged his horse in the proper direction.

"So he'll run and tell everyone that a desert devil threatened him—who will believe him?"

"He has a point," Cedric said unhelpfully.

Drake just frowned and fell silent.

Of course, Rowe couldn't have known that the boy, whose name was Ewan, was only planning on telling one person about the occurrence. Ewan had an older brother named Emmett, who had decided, as many had, to act upon his love for Silvern and hatred for the monarchy by joining in sedition against the Silvernian royalty. Unlike many, Emmett had not given up on the cause after Owen's death, and he was in the castle now, with a handful of the faithful, waiting and wondering what do to next.

As the four newcomers to Rynherst stopped halfway along the road wending round the hill to discuss their options and what they were likely to find in the castle, Ewan clambered up the natural stone steps that led him directly up the side of the hill. The castle's front gates were open, rusted into that position from two months of stasis. With the royals dead and the castle looted, there was really nothing to protect. It was used by the remaining seditionists for the simple reason that it was empty. Fear of ghosts and traitors kept the common citizens away, and they had enough weapons and skill among them to put to rest any noble tendencies harbored by the few, scattered Silvernian knights that hadn't been a part of the rebellion.

Truthfully, the sedition, which had started as a passionate flame, had dissolved into embers. Owen's master plan to abolish monarchical reign forever had died along with him, and now the committed few could only sit in the cold, dark castle and watch the passing days steal the rest of Silvern's life away.

Ewan pushed open one of the grand doors with considerable difficulty and slipped into the dank silence of the castle. As he raced through the main hall, the walls echoed with the sound of his bare feet slapping on the stone floors.

"Emmett! Emmett!" he cried, not exactly sure where his brother would be. It was a big castle. His voice rang stridently through the corridors, drawing several people from their seclusion in various rooms.

"Ewan, what's wrong?" A woman came out to meet him with a puzzled frown on her pretty features.

"Liza! Where's Emmett?" Ewan finally stopped running and dropped his hands to his knees, panting.

"Brooding somewhere, I think." She smiled grimly. "Is it that important?"

"I need to talk to him _right now_!" Ewan insisted.

"Okay," she said with a laugh. Everyone was accustomed to Ewan's chronic exaggeration. The boy had probably killed a snake or something and felt his brother needed to know.

"Emmett!" Liza shouted, with enough volume to rival Ewan. The difference was that Emmett always heard Liza and never seemed to be far when she called.

True to form, the broad-shouldered man came through one of the numerous servants' doors that dotted the castle. He was thickset with muscle rather than fat, and stood a head taller than everyone, making him the default leader of the vagabond group of castle-dwellers, should the necessity for an actual leader ever arise.

"What's wrong?" he asked, with the same frown that Liza had worn.

"Desert devils!" Ewan answered, practically shouting, as if the information was bursting from him.

Emmett, Liza, and those who had gathered in curiosity and boredom stared skeptically at him.

"I'm serious!" Ewan cried—the same words he often used when relaying news about talking frogs and enchanted pumpkins. No one believed him those times, either.

"There are four of them," he continued. "One of them threatened to chop my hand off, and he had a sword and everything!"

"Are you sure they were desert devils?" Emmett asked slowly, using the same tone he used when asking if Ewan was sure that the frogs had talked or the pumpkins had floated. Usually, when faced with his brother's humorless and knowing stare, Ewan would recant.

Ewan took a few seconds to consider his answer.

"Well, at least _one_ of them was," he said, struggling to use the rationality that Emmett insisted he had somewhere in his fanciful head. "The one who threatened me. I heard the accent plain as day, I swear!"

"You're mistaken," someone said, but it was more of a hopeful suggestion.

"I _swear_, Emmett, Liza! You have to believe me! They're riding toward the castle."

"Now?" Emmett asked in alarm, all doubts swept away by the urgency of the statement.

"If one is a desert devil, then they probably all are," Liza said, touching Emmett's arm. "Why would they be here?"

"To chop off our hands and eat them and use our skulls for bowls while they drink our blood!" Ewan howled, though this prediction admittedly came from the fanciful part of his head, rather than the rational part.

"Ewan, quit hollering and go tell those who aren't here to come to the main hall. Everyone else, find your weapons. We'll be ready for them, whatever they want." Emmett had the confident air of someone used to giving orders, and everyone listened.

"Why would they come here of all places?" Liza wondered aloud. "I thought they never left the Great Desert."

Emmett shook his head. He didn't have an answer for her.

"Do you think the rumors are true?" he asked softly, hoping she wouldn't hear the note of fear in his tone, though Liza always could.

"Drinking our blood from our skulls? I'm pretty sure Ewan made that up as the words left his mouth." She laughed. "Actually, I'm pretty sure Ewan starts most rumors."

"I mean the magic," Emmett said, not laughing. "I mean the sorcery and the unnatural skills and strength."

Liza thought for a moment, and Emmett watched her, silently admiring the way she was staunchly unafraid. Perhaps he was the leader of this meager group, but she was the backbone, the unbreakable support.

"I don't know," she declared. "We'll find out shortly, won't we?"

"I love you," Emmett said abruptly.

"I know." Liza winked. "That's why you married me, remember?"


	45. Onslaught

_True passion is an onslaught that few can survive._

_--The poet Ettne_

"This isn't going to end well," Rowe said for the hundredth time. Over the journey, the words had evolved from an adamant warning to a casual statement of fact.

"The castle is empty," Drake said, gesturing ahead of them as they rode into the courtyard of the Silvernian castle. "If the sedition was using it as some sort of headquarters, don't you think they would have had the foresight to shut the gates _before_ they rusted open?"

Rowe wanted to argue, but he happened to agree. The castle in front of them was dark and silent. Several windows were shattered—evidence of looting—and the barrage of arrows and swords he had expected upon arrival was nonexistent.

"I don't think the fact that you are occupying the castle again is going to magically change anything," Rowe said as they dismounted.

"Of course it won't," Drake snapped. "But we have to start somewhere."

"Would you two _please_ stop arguing?" Ravyn demanded.

"She's right," Cedric said. As the oldest in the group, he had been forced to adopt the role of rational mediator several days ago. "Bickering isn't going to help anything."

"I just think that a backup plan would be wise," Rowe said. "You know, once this whole 'save the world without any sort of plan at all' plan falls through."

Drake opened his mouth to retaliate, but Rowe had already pushed open one of the front doors and disappeared inside. He followed, fully prepared to give Rowe a piece of his mind. Ravyn and Cedric were at his heels, but they were all three forced to stop short right inside the door, because that's what Rowe had done.

"What is—" Drake began, but then his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness.

A wide arc of swords and bows lay before them—twenty at least—held ready by men and women who were most definitely the seditionists that had let the gates rust open despite the fact that they were holed up in the castle.

All of this was realized in the space of a breath. In the second breath, a sizeable man with a sword moved forward.

"You have thirty seconds to convince the archers not to kill you where you stand," he said. "Start by telling us what you're doing here."

The space of one more breath passed, bringing with it the very clear realization that it might just be the last for the four arrivals.

Rowe took two steps back and pulled Drake in front of him.

"Time for that backup plan," he whispered barely, and shoved Drake squarely between his shoulder blades.

Drake didn't have the chance to catch his balance, and he hit the floor face-first.

"What does it look like we're doing here?" Rowe demanded, with all his confidence and a hint of scorn for good measure. "We've brought the prince and princess, and we expect a substantial reward."

Rowe drew his own sword and placed the tip at the back of Drake's neck, just for effect. He was enjoying himself by now. Cedric caught on first and pushed Ravyn forward. Her mind caught up with her then, and she dropped to her knees beside her brother before Rowe was forced to shove her. All of this was perhaps too unbelievable already for the twenty or so with weapons that stared in silence.

"I don't believe it…" the man said with wide eyes.

"Well, of course it's not really them." The woman beside him stepped forward, keeping Rowe's gaze with matching confidence, but markedly more scorn.

"Elizabeth?" Ravyn said in surprise, before she could stop herself. Elizabeth had been a part of the Silvernian court for as long as Ravyn could remember. She had been seventeen and a lady when Ravyn was seven and chasing geese for fun. She had always been the older, experienced presence that Ravyn had confided in once or twice and asked to join in some scheme or another multiple times. For all her ladylike ways, Elizabeth had been fond of the occasional prank, especially the ones involving sticky substances and the hairpieces of the more stuffy noblemen.

Of course, Ravyn hadn't seen her for many years. Elizabeth had gotten married and moved away from the castle, as well as joined in some more treacherous scheming, it seemed.

"Ravyn?" Liza said in surprise. "I can't believe…" She almost took a step forward, but pulled herself back. She moved back to Emmett's side, standing partially behind one of his broad shoulders, as if his body could protect her from the sudden onslaught of guilt and relief and memories that rushed over her.

She hadn't explicitly been a part of the assassination plot. She always told herself that she wasn't capable of taking a life, but deep down she knew she was culpable as anyone—as Owen himself. But that was outweighed by the fact that what they were doing was _right_. Silvern needed saving. Silvern's people needed freedom.

Sacrifices were necessary evils.

"Well?" The desert devil was looking between her and Emmett. He was young and striking, less of a devil and more of…well, Liza didn't know. He just wasn't what she expected.

She shifted her gaze to the other man, who was older and had yet to speak.

"Asherian nobility," she noted out loud, seeing his crimson tunic.

"Recent convert," the man said succinctly. That much was obvious, as his voice held none of the Tevouin intonation—rounded vowels and sharp completion.

"Introductions can come later," said the younger, whose accent was very Tevouin. He must have been the one to threaten Ewan. "We'll take our reward now, preferably in gold, though silver is acceptable."

"You're not exactly in a position to give orders," Emmett pointed out, recovering from his shock at seeing the Silvernian prince and princess alive and well. No doubt his mind was already spinning with the possible ways this would work to their advantage. Liza knew hers was.

"I understand. We'll just take them elsewhere then," Rowe said. He knew exactly what position he was in—one that would end with an arrow in his heart if he wasn't careful.

The seditionists weren't going to let Drake and Ravyn be taken anywhere, but hopefully they wouldn't kill them right away. If he had time, maybe he could figure out a way to escape. Maybe it would be best to earn their trust first, though.

"How about this," the man who seemed to be in charge said. "You leave them here, and we will let you walk away unharmed."

Rowe snorted.

"We didn't ride across the country to be threatened and sent away none the richer." Then he remembered that he was supposed to be earning trust, so he added, "Perhaps we can come to an arrangement."

"I'm listening," the man said lightly.

"You're working to dissolve the monarchy permanently, right?"

"Obviously," snapped the woman.

"Liza…" the man chastened gently, and she closed her mouth.

"The Tevouins have been hating the monarchy since before you were born, and we have the numbers that you don't."

The man looked around the room thoughtfully, and Rowe knew he had found leverage.

"My partner and I will stay here as an act of good faith—the first of what could be a long and beneficial alliance."

His words dangled tantalizingly in the air like a sweet fruit for the plucking.

"We would never align ourselves with desert devils," the woman, Liza, said.

"I see," Rowe remarked dryly. "In that case, we'll leave then. Best of luck with your plan to hide out in a looted castle until…well, what exactly _is_ your plan here?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You've made your point," the man said. "We'll consider it."

"You'll give an answer now, or the offer is revoked," Rowe shot back without hesitation. He was pushing it, but it was better to have them backed into a corner, grasping for chances, than to be in that position himself.

The only sound in the air was that of uneasy breaths. The man looked at Liza, who stared wordlessly at him. Her pursed lips still expressed her silent disdain for the idea, but she didn't voice an opinion.

"Welcome to our abode," the man said finally, waving at his comrades to lower their weapons.

Rowe stooped down to drag Drake to his feet.

"You're welcome," he whispered pointedly into his ear.

Drake just gritted his teeth and glanced at Ravyn. She was watching at him in concern, and he knew she was searching for assurance that things were going to somehow work out.

Too bad he had no such assurance to give.

* * *

Saria reached the castle a week and a half after she and Rhodry left the port town. Rhodry had bid farewell when they reached his hometown, mumbling under his breath about being too old for any more adventures. So Saria made the last day's ride to the castle by herself, which gave her ample time to worry herself into a fidgety and apprehensive state. Over the past several days, she had only accumulated a few scattered hours of tortured sleep, and that did nothing to help her flaccid spirit.

She had no idea what she was going to find at the castle, and she wasn't sure if it was something she could face alone.

The clattering of her horse's hooves across the drawbridge was deafening, and several knights and servants gathered in astonished silence as she rode into the main courtyard. In fact, the crowd was so shocked at seeing the Crown Princess alive, that no one—not even the stable boy whose job it was—stepped forward to help her dismount.

Saria was forced to struggle out of the saddle herself, which was a feat that she had yet to master, even after riding to the seaside and back again. She managed to loose one foot from the stirrup and subsequently fell ungracefully off the horse. The fact that the Crown Princess was now lying on her back on the dusty cobblestones spurred the onlookers into action.

Several rushed forward to help her, while others ran inside, no doubt to inform her father.

"Your highness, you're alive!" the stable boy cried, taking her hand and pulling her up.

"No one's dead," Saria murmured in relief, looking around. Maybe the _ylpera_ had not made it after all.

"Are you all right?" someone asked skeptically.

"She must have hit her head," said another.

"I'm fine," Saria assured, suddenly remembering her urgency.

She broke through the crowd and ran into the main hall. She sprinted up the grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time. The mahogany banister felt warmly familiar beneath her fingertips, the plush carpet felt safe and cozy beneath her feet, and she was struck with the sudden sensation that nothing was as bad as she had feared.

She ran all the way to Jackson's room, brimming with all the stories she had to share with him. She hoped he wasn't asleep.

His room was dark.

Saria slipped inside, closing the door softly beside her.

"Jackson?" she whispered, tiptoeing to his bedside.

Her eyes began to adjust to the dim light that crept past the dark curtains. The bed was stripped. Saria frowned and rushed to throw open the curtains. She turned around slowly, breathing more and more rapidly as she took in the scene.

All the furniture in the room was draped in white sheets. The walls were bare.

"I'm sorry, your highness. Your brother is dead."

She caught her breath and spun around. The old doctor stood just inside the door.

Saria's heart lurched, and tears welled up in her eyes.

"No," she said, recognizing the familiar scene before her. "No, this is just a dream—a nightmare."

"Two days ago. He passed in his sleep, miss. It was painless," the doctor hesitated. He looked truly aggrieved. "I'm so sorry."

"No!" Saria snapped. "He promised he would wait. He promised." She raced around the room, ripping sheets off furniture.

"'Twasn't his doing, miss. He held on for a long time—longer than anyone expected—but it was his time."

"Don't _say _that!" Saria cried, still not looking toward the doctor. "This is all a nightmare. I'm going to wake up, and we'll still be in Fairden, and Jackson will be okay, just like he promised."

She sank down on the bed and stared down at her trembling hands. Tears were pouring silently down her cheeks and into her mouth. Nausea started welling up inside her chest.

"I'm sorry," the old doctor said again, sitting down beside her.

Saria steeled herself and looked at him. He was looking her straight in the eye, and that's when she realized that she wouldn't be waking up.

"Please leave," she whispered.

The doctor nodded and left. Saria stood up shakily and started throwing the sheets back over the furniture. She was numb from head to toe. All the worry and apprehension in her head had dissolved into streaming tears.

Once the last sheet had been replaced, once the room had resumed its empty and lifeless air, Saria curled up brokenly on the bare bed and cried herself to sleep.


	46. Enemy

"_The worst sort of enemy is the one you see coming."_

_--Anonymous_

When Saria woke up, the dull orange light spilling into the room told her that dusk had arrived. The first thing she did was roll onto her side and reach to wake up Rhodry. They should have been on the move hours ago. Then she remembered where she was.

Then she remembered everything else.

The realization was not a sickening jolt, but rather a quiet sensation that crawled from her toes to her head. Saria hugged her knees to her chest and wondered why she couldn't cry.

There seemed to be no tears left, but it was more than that. She didn't _want_ to cry anymore. She wanted to be angry at someone—anyone. She had left her home, braved Fairden's deadly shadows, sailed an ocean, and traversed the Forbidden East. She had done everything she was supposed to do, and still Jackson was gone.

She and Rhodry had been somewhere in the Asherian countryside when her brother had passed. There had been no thunder, no lightning, and no breaking skies. He had simply been there one moment and gone the next, and Saria had never known the difference. She was sure that the hope inside of her meant that Jackson was still alive—that everything was going to be all right. She had been wrong.

Everything was wrong.

The door creaked open, and Saria jumped up. Her adventures had taught her to be quick on her feet, if nothing else.

The gray cat slipped into the room and sat down right inside the threshold. He glared expectantly at her with his wide amber eyes.

"What do you want?" Saria demanded. "It's a little late to show up and save the day, isn't it?" She had given up trying to figure out the feline. Maybe he was a fey, like Runa and Suri had insisted, and maybe he wasn't. Saria didn't really care—she had bigger things to worry about.

The cat responded with his peculiar meow and bounded over to the bed, brushing past a shrouded piece of furniture as he came. The sheet cascaded to the floor like a white waterfall.

Saria stared at her reflection in the newly revealed mirror for a very long time. It was the first time she had looked in a mirror since she had left the castle a month and a half ago, and she barely recognized herself.

Her gown was tattered and covered in traveler's dust. Her slipshod braid was coming loose, allowing greasy golden locks to hang limply around her face, which was smudged with some unidentified gray substance.

She absently wiped the spot away with her sleeve. Her cheeks were raw and sunburned, and there were dark circles underneath her eyes. She looked down at her hands, which were calloused and engrained with dirt.

The cat brushed against her ankles and stared up at her expectantly.

"I look pretty terrible, don't I?" she said ruefully.

The cat didn't reply. Saria started laughing, despite herself. It was a thin and hollow sound. Everything was going wrong, and she was worrying about her reflection in the mirror.

She left Jackson's room and went to the dining hall. The guards let her through without a word. She could feel their astounded stares on her as she passed. Just as she guessed, her father was in his usual spot at the head of the table, eating his dinner alone.

King Cyrus glanced at her once and then returned to his food.

"You look revolting," he said, between bites.

"I'm so glad to see you too, Father," Saria replied lightly.

"Go find Madam Porter. I won't allow Asher's princess to look like a peasant."

"I have to talk to you first." Saria walked down the length of the table and perched on the chair next to her father.

Cyrus shot her a sharp glare when she didn't immediately obey him, but he didn't say anything. Saria launched into her tale about Owen and the _ylpera_. Cyrus didn't react until she had finished, and then he started laughing raucously.

"Well, we're all alive here, so I guess your heroic quest was in vain," he managed to spit out between peals of laughter.

Saria frowned.

"This isn't funny!" she snapped. "What if he's still out there somewhere?"

"Watch your tone with me," Cyrus said, not laughing anymore. "I told you to go find Madam Porter."

"You'll look into this, right?"

"I said _go_. You need to stay out of my hair until I figure out what I want to do with you."

Saria's frown deepened.

"I am not a doll for you to stick on a shelf somewhere."

Cyrus's grip on his fork tightened. The twitch in his jaw told Saria that she was going too far. She should leave before he lost his temper.

It struck her suddenly that she didn't care if he lost his temper—not like she used to. After everything she had seen, after everything she had been through, King Cyrus simply did not frighten her anymore.

That put a smile on her lips.

"Have a good night, Father," she said pointedly, turning to leave. "I'll see you in the morning, when we can discuss my future together."

Cyrus glared sideways at her and stuffed another bite in his mouth.

"Simpering, useless brat," he muttered as he chewed. "Just like your brother."

Saria whirled on her heel.

"How could you say something like that?" she asked heatedly. "Jackson is dead."

"He certainly took a bloody long time getting there too," Cyrus replied, throwing down his fork. "I have no use for—"

"For your _son_?" Saria cried unbelievingly.

"For an heir that cannot rule." Cyrus looked at her sharply. "Like you."

Saria took a deep breath. Heat flooded down her back, and her jaw was trembling. She had her hands squeezed so tightly into fists that her nails were digging painfully into her palms.

"You're sick," she said quietly, not trusting her own voice.

"I'm the king."

"You're my father," Saria snapped.

"But a king, first and foremost, and you will _not_ continue to argue with me." Cyrus rose to his feet. He towered several heads over her, and Saria couldn't help but falter back a step.

"Did you even stop what you were doing?" she asked in a low voice, feeling sick to her stomach. "Did you even look up when they told you he had passed?"

Cyrus didn't reply, but Saria already knew the answer.

"What is the matter with you?" she whispered.

Cyrus slapped her so hard across the cheek that Saria's head spun. She lifted her fingers to her face in a daze. The warm, coppery taste of blood slowly filled her mouth, and she looked at Cyrus with wide eyes. Despite herself, fear was building in her gut.

Cyrus grabbed her forearm and twisted it until Saria cried out in pain.

"You will not continue to argue with me," he repeated flatly.

"You're hurting me," Saria gasped.

"Good. Obviously pain is the only thing that gets your attention." He twisted her arm a little further.

Tears sprang into Saria's eyes. She wanted to pull away, but she feared that her arm would break.

"Go find Madam Porter, and stay out of my way." He released her.

Saria cradled her arm and backed away from him, eyeing him cautiously. Then she turned and fled from the room.

"And make sure Madam Porter reminds you of your place," he called after her, and then settled back down to his dinner.

Saria didn't stop running until she had reached her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. She collapsed in a heap on her bed and gasped into her arms—dry, heaving sobs. Familiar fear and helplessness began to creep over her, and she hated it.

Her father had never physically hurt her before. Harsh words, snide remarks, biting glares—those were Cyrus's usual arsenal. Saria realized with a sinking feeling that things had changed more than she'd thought. She had always been a little afraid of him, as much as any subject should fear her king, but that fear had never been so solidified as it had been in that moment. It was different than the confrontation with the sailor—she couldn't very well fight back against the king of Asher. Besides that, Cyrus was her father. How was she supposed to stand against a man who was simultaneously father and king?

When no answer readily presented itself, she crawled off her bed and wiped her eyes to look at her bedroom for the first time in almost two months.

Everything was as she left it, and there was something comforting about the unremarkable tapestries lining the walls and the pale cream of the carpet, stained in the corner from that cup of tea she had flung in a temper when she was thirteen. She walked hesitantly around the room, brushing her fingers across the various odds and ends that had accumulated on the shelves over her lifetime, the portrait of her mother by the window, the soft burgundy curtains, the withered flowers in a dry vase, and the polished wood of her bedposts. For a few short moments, she forgot that she had ever left. The familiarity of her room was both soothing and suffocating.

She sat down on her bed again and nursed her aching arm, thankful at least that the taste of blood in her mouth had dried up. That was when Madam Porter burst into the room, followed by her entourage of ladies. There was a general uproar among the twittering women when they saw Saria's appearance, and they immediately set to work.

Saria as remained still and mute as a doll, like she was supposed to. She was suddenly too tired to do anything but submit to the humming and hawing of the ladies. The hot, aromatic bath was admittedly lovely, and Saria couldn't help but appreciate the rich satin and velvet of her new dress against her skin, as opposed to the roughhewn cotton of the maid's gown she had taken before leaving.

Madam Porter lectured her sternly while lacing her corset, jerking the strings tighter with every reprimand. Saria closed her eyes and bit her lip. She had forgotten how dangerous Madam Porter could be with a corset when she was displeased. When she was finally released from the grip of her overzealous chief lady-in-waiting, Saria could barely breathe.

"Is this really necessary?" she asked, straining to loosen the strings. "There is no one here to impress."

Madam Porter slapped her hands away.

"Your father, the _king_, is here, you impudent little girl. He has expressed his immense displeasure in your behavior, and I plan on thoroughly correcting you."

"He's done that enough for one day," Saria muttered, wincing as Madam Porter pulled a brush brusquely through her hair.

"You're lucky he hasn't disowned you! Running around the countryside, _unescorted_, with some vagabond boy—you are a disgrace."

"Alden is not a vagab—oww!" Saria shrank away from the hairbrush as Madam Porter wrestled with a particularly stubborn tangle.

"There is no excuse for your flagrant disrespect of your position. Such behavior is reprehensible, unforgivable, and—what if you had _died_? The kingdom would be shamed. Your father would be shamed! You are a disgrace…"

The lecture continued without any sign of a reprieve.

Saria just fell into a sullen silence. She was tired of joining in arguments that she couldn't win. Already, she missed the freedom of being away from here. She loved and hated the wildness of travel and the unpredictability of adventure. Jostling horses and the hard ground for a bed were bitter tastes, tempered by the sweetness of chasing the wind and falling asleep beneath the limitless wonder of the night sky.

She was glad to be safe, yet missing the inherent danger—a dichotomy that made Saria's head spin to even think about. She had found something that she wasn't looking for on the road to the Forbidden East, and it seemed to be the only good thing to come out of all this.

* * *

The twenty-eighth day in the Month of the Lilac brought a thunderous rain to Silvern. Lightning cracked in the gray skies, and rain crashed through the broken windows with the force of the howling wind. The seditionists didn't bother trying to board up the windows. Instead they just moved further into the castle, huddling under ragged blankets for warmth. The firewood had been used up many weeks ago.

Drake was grateful that they had let him and Ravyn keep their cloaks, though that was quite possibly the only thing to be grateful for in this situation. He was shackled to a chair, as was his sister. They were sitting back to back in the center of the bare throne room, for no particular reason that Drake could see.

Cedric had brought up the valid point that the castle was full of windowless rooms –storage areas and the like—that could serve as perfectly functional prison cells. Drake was glad that he could also foretell the intense discomfort that sitting in a chair for prolonged periods of time would wreak.

Emmett, the apparent leader, had disregarded the suggestion, insisting that the captives remain in full view at all times. Privacy offered the chance for plotting, he had said, looking mistrustfully between Rowe and Cedric. It was obvious that the two "desert devils" had only earned a minimal amount of trust—just enough to keep them alive.

They intended to keep it that way and had secretly agreed, albeit discontentedly, to avoid any more shows of concern for Drake and Ravyn's wellbeing. They couldn't very well carry on this precarious charade otherwise.

In a rare few minutes of privacy, when all the seditionists had wandered off and Emmett had stepped outside with Liza for a confidential conversation, the four had rapidly discussed their plan, or lack thereof.

It was agreed that nothing could be done until Emmett, Liza, and the others trusted Rowe and Cedric enough to leave them unsupervised. However unsavory the idea, Drake and Ravyn would have to continue to play the helpless captives, and Cedric and Rowe would play the uncaring desert devils—at least until some option of escape presented itself.

Currently, Rowe wandered the halls of the castle, familiarizing himself with the layout, as well as with the seditionists. Most of them avoided him like the plague, but some were more curious than scared, and he had been able to make a few shaky alliances.

Cedric sat against the wall in the throne room, nodding off occasionally, but mostly keeping an eye on the seditionists in the room. Liza was against the opposite wall, talking sternly to Ewan, who had crossed Rowe that morning and been threatened thoroughly to not do so again.

"He said he'd use a Tevouin dagger trick on me!" Ewan said, sounding more triumphant than scared. After all, he had agitated a desert devil and lived to tell the tale.

"Well, if you get an eye gouged out, don't expect me or Emmett to retaliate," Liza said. "It would be your own fault for not minding your tongue."

Tevouin dagger tricks were a thing of legend, though no one knew precisely what composed one. Most assumed that this was because all the victims of a Tevouin dagger trick never got the chance to tell about the experience. In reality, it was because the tricks didn't exist outside of legend, much like Tevouin magic and sacrificial rites. The threat of one held weight in the outside world, though, which the Tevouins used to their advantage.

Emmett strode in, looking pleased with himself.

"I've sent the letter with the fastest rider," he announced to Liza. "General Grey will receive it in about five days. Hopefully he will know what to do."

Drake jerked his head up at Grey's name and glanced at Cedric. Cedric climbed to his feet and voiced the pressing question for him.

"Why the old general?"

"He was closest to Owen," Emmett answered. "We can only assume that he knows more than we do, and that he will know how to use all of this to our best advantage."

Since yesterday, they had been tossing around ideas of what to do with Drake and Ravyn—whether killing them immediately was the best solution or if there was a better one. Cedric couldn't help but think that the ragtag group was a bit like a chicken with its head cut off. They really didn't have a plan here in the castle. It would have been amusing, if their desperation hadn't also made them deadly.

"But you can't know that it will reach him directly," Cedric said. "Cyrus will certainly be notified of any message from Silvern—especially after King Richard's murder."

"Which is why it is written as if it comes from Grey's manor in Asher," Emmett said, with minimal patience. "This isn't our first contact with the general. To the king or anyone else with prying eyes, it looks like a letter from the manor's steward, updating Grey on the state of things. The true message is encoded."

"You underestimate us," Liza added with a slight smile.

_Five days_, Cedric thought. That meant it would be at least ten before they received a reply, which left them plenty of time to figure a way out of this. Still, he pitied Drake and Ravyn, who, judging from their expressions, realized that they would probably be spending those ten days shackled to their chairs.

He wanted to say something to Emmett, perhaps suggest once more that the royals be moved to a room somewhere, but the bear-like man and his wife were both eyeing him cagily. They were trying to judge his reaction, Cedric realized. He couldn't risk the concern.

Reluctantly, Cedric gave an approving nod to the whole ordeal and left the room. Rowe would have to come and take his place for a while. He couldn't stand the stifling air of distrust, and he certainly couldn't stomach the sight of Ravyn and Drake, chained like criminals while the real criminals decided their fate.

He had hoped that his decision to ally with the Tevouins would lead him to a better place—past corruption and lies. But like the storm that still raged outside, things were only getting worse.

* * *

Saria was relieved to find the library in the same condition she had left it in. The massive oak doors still creaked with age, the air was still thick with dust and mildew, and Cadmus was still behind his desk, snoring loudly with his chin resting on his chest. Saria resisted the urge to tackle him in an embrace and cleared her throat politely instead. Cadmus shifted and began snoring louder.

Saria smiled and cleared her throat with more volume. The old librarian started and almost fell out of his chair. When he regained his balance, he fumbled around with the papers and books on his desk, mumbling something about the importance of ballads to the general population. It took him several moments to realize that he wasn't alone in the library.

"My, my, my, Queen Evelyn, is that you?" he asked, squinting in bewilderment.

Saria was a little shocked that he mistook her for her mother a second time, and she stepped further into the light of the lamp on his desk. Cadmus clapped his hands thrice.

"Miss Princess, you're back!" he exclaimed, beaming. "And looking so much like your mother that for a moment I thought I'd lost my mind. Ghosts are not the sort of thing one expects to see in a sensible library."

"You told me before that I didn't look a thing like my mother," Saria pointed out.

"Well, not then, of course." Cadmus waved his hands dismissively and gestured for her to sit. "You've grown, grown, grown. I can see it all about you—there it is in your smile. What adventures have you had? Go on, tell this old man something exciting. Tell, tell, tell."

Saria smile widened, and she sat down. She was happy to regale him with her travels and take her mind off of everything else in the process. Cadmus listened to her tale without interruption, and Saria didn't falter until she reached the end. Thinking about the journey home made her think of Jackson.

Cadmus leaned forward and clasped her hand between his.

"'Twas his time, miss. There's no fighting that."

"I could have saved him," Saria insisted. "Maybe if I—"

"There's no fighting death," Cadmus said gently. "It isn't an enemy."

Saria frowned and wiped away tears.

"Jackson shouldn't have died. He should have lived and done all the things he wanted to do. He should have attended one of those stupid economic counsels and gone on diplomatic missions and become king, and _I_—" Her voice broke, and she took a calming breath. "I shouldn't have to live without him."

Cadmus shook his head mournfully.

"There's no one in this world that can say what he should and shouldn't have done, miss. We can only trust that he did all the things he was meant to do." Cadmus smiled. "Such as giving his little sister the strength to find herself."

Saria tried to return his smile, but she couldn't.

"He can't stay here simply because you want him to," Cadmus continued. "He had his own life to live and his own death to accept, and I must say that he did it all with remarkable strength. I visited him once, you know. He was having a good day and wanted something to read. We talked about you."

"What did he say?" Saria asked, feeling out of breath.

"That he was ready to go, but he didn't want to disappoint you."

Saria bit her lip and fought the tears that threatened to spill over. Her throat felt tight. The weight of her own selfishness dropped onto her shoulders with crushing force, and she buried her face in her arms.

"I didn't—I never—he was in pain, wasn't he? I never thought about anything except how much I wanted him to live." A few strangled sobs ripped through her throat. She cried for a full minute, suddenly overwhelmed.

Slowly, she drew strength from Cadmus's hand on her shoulder and straightened up.

"I should have told him that I loved him," she said in a ragged whisper, wiping her nose with the handkerchief he offered. "I should have told him that it was okay for him to go—that I wouldn't be angry, that I would be all right."

"I think he knew that, miss," Cadmus said. "Else he would have never let go. Never, never, never."

Saria sniffled and wiped her eyes. She knew he was right, and that eased some of the pain in her chest. A naïve part of her had hoped that upon her return everything could return to normal, but now she knew that nothing would ever be the same again. She suddenly felt as if there was no place for her here. With Jackson gone, it wasn't really home.

In fact, she was tempted to leave all of this behind her for good. She could pack her knapsack, take a horse from the stable, and never look back. No more schemes, no more lectures, no more Cyrus. The thought was glorious.


	47. Persuasion

"_Persuasion is an art form, requiring a delicate balance between violence and sympathy, between playing the villain and acting the saint. It is vital for a king to have a mastery of both."_

_-__-The Duties, Responsibilities, and Expectations of Royalty_

Grey had lost track of the days first, and then the hours, and then the minutes. Finally his time in the Asherian dungeons was no longer _time_ at all, but rather an existence—a terrible, terrible existence without beginning or end. His fitful dreams raced with battles long past and wars yet to be fought. Swords flashed, and arrows flew, and there was Lara, laughing with an infant in her arms.

"Alden," she said. "His name is Alden. Come here, my love. Meet your son."

Grey wanted to come. He tried to come. But suddenly the walls were crumbling around him, and Silvern was drenched in blood, and his own hands were black with sin, and someone was crying, screaming, dying, and then there was nothing.

Grey jerked awake with Lara's name on his lips. The walls of his prison echoed lightly with the sound. After taking several ragged breaths of the dank, putrid air, Grey realized that he was losing his mind. He almost hoped that Cyrus would order his execution, because then it could all be over.

Outside the door, there was a muffled rattling, and a key turned in the ancient lock. The sudden, glorious light of a torch momentarily blinded Grey as the door swung open, and he averted his face. Usually the scant meals were shoved through the slot at the bottom of the door. Aside from the thread of cold light that trickled through a crack in the wall high above, Grey had been in darkness since he was brought down here.

The chains on his wrists rattled as he sat up to examine the visitors. His shackles were looped through an iron ring in the wall, giving him limited range of movement.

The man with the torch was a bored-looking guard who seemed to be escorting the much older man beside him. Grey recognized Lord Marcin, chief advisor to King Cyrus, immediately. It was no secret that his grandfatherly demeanor veiled a cunning, ruthless mind. The man was a snake, and his visit couldn't bode well for Grey.

"A letter came for you," Marcin said without inflection. He let the parchment float to the ground, where it rested delicately, half-unfolded.

Grey caught sight of the greeting and knew immediately who had sent it. From the icy grin on Marcin's wrinkled face, Grey guessed that he at least knew what the letter was _not_—which was a harmless note from the steward of his Asherian manor.

"Clever code," Marcin said. "The king and I have been trying to figure it out all day, with no luck, I'm afraid. That's why I was forced to make the rather unpleasant journey here. I'm getting old, you see. My joints can't handle such steep descents." He laughed heartily. It was a jovial sound, and if Grey hadn't known the man, he would have relaxed.

"You're going to explain to me every detail of this code," Marcin continued, lapsing into solemnity with enough ease to prove that the laughter had not been genuine. "And then you're going to tell me everything else you know, and you aren't going to lie."

Grey didn't speak.

There was something unnerving about the man's words, about the certainty in which he spoke them. Grey felt off-balance, and the interrogation had yet to begin.

Marcin absorbed the silence for a moment, and then spoke once more.

"The king suggested that I use pain to persuade you, but I suspect that pain means next to nothing to the great General Grey of Silvern."

Grey still didn't speak.

"I've learned some things about—what shall we call it…_persuasion_—in my day. Different people require different types of finesse." His lips curled into a gruesome sort of grin. "I was sorry to hear that your beloved wife had already passed. She would have made an excellent instrument of persuasion. Lara, was it? Lovely name."

Grey stiffened at the mention of her. Echoes of his dream still fogged his head, and she lingered there. The more he tried to capture the image of her, the more it faded. Her eyes faded first, then her lips. Her golden skin. Her laughter. And finally the scent of her—what was it? With panic, he tried to remember. Lavenders. She always smelled of lavenders. But then that too was gone.

Marcin was talking again.

"Tell me, does your son look anything like his mother?"

A spitting image.

"No," Grey said.

Marcin read the lie like words on a page and chuckled softly.

"Now, now, no lying, remember?"

"Alden isn't here," Grey said. "He left with the princess." That was true, at least.

Marcin chuckled again, which made Grey's blood run cold.

"On the contrary, my friend. Haven't you heard the news? Her royal majesty Princess Saria returned almost a week ago. Everyone is very pleased."

Grey found his mouth too dry to shape any words. His son was alive? His son was _here_?

"Let me see him!" Grey cried, straining uselessly against his shackles.

"Certainly," the old man said, spreading his hands in a gesture of utter geniality. "As soon as you tell me about this." He nudged the letter with his toe.

Grey collapsed back to the ground. He knew the outburst was a mistake. Marcin was looking for a weakness, and now he had found it.

"No?" Marcin asked into the silence. "Very well then, I shall rephrase."

He stooped down so he could look Grey squarely in the eye, so there would be no doubt as to the veracity of his threat.

"You will tell me what I want to know, or I will personally cut out your son's eyes and bring them to you on a silver platter." His shriveled lips pressed tightly against his yellow teeth in a vicious smile. "I'll bet he has his mother's eyes."

Grey shuddered despite himself, thinking of the last time he had seen him, of the bruises he had left in his wake. Alden probably hated him more than he was starting to hate himself. He loved his son though, something he hadn't realized until this exact moment.

But did he love him more than Silvern?

Of course he did.

_Do you? Do you really?_

Yes. _Yes._

Seventeen minutes later, Marcin emerged from the dungeons. He had the letter in his hand and the translation in his head, as well as everything else he had wanted to know about the sedition in Silvern. He'd had no doubt that he would succeed. Persuasion was a simple art, like lying. Marcin was a master of both. Though if the boy had really been here, and Grey had refused, he wouldn't have hesitated to carry out his threat. Persuasion depended as much on truth as it did on lies.

He brought the message to the king and told him all the relevant facts.

Cyrus nodded slowly at the news of the Tevouin alliance with the sedition and stopped nodding in shock at the news of the Silvernian royals' reappearance.

"Highly inconvenient," he grumbled, after some thought. "This could cause problems."

"Not if they receive a reply that works in our favor," Marcin said smoothly. "I know the code well enough now."

King Cyrus thought for a few more seconds and smiled.

"Send a reply then. Tell them to kill the royals and the Tevouins."

"Consider it done, your highness," Marcin said, turning to leave. It _was_ done, actually. The messenger was well on his way by now with a new letter in hand. Marcin had been working with the king long enough to predict his every decision, and if he had decided something different, then Marcin would have simply persuaded him otherwise.

He had been doing this for years, after all. He was a master of the art.

* * *

Rowe was pretending to be asleep and doing a pretty good job of it. He had found a rickety wooden chair and propped it up against a wall in the throne room, so that the back of his neck fit nicely against the cold stone of the wall and the two front legs of the chair stuck out several inches above the floor. The back legs would probably buckle at any moment and send him crashing to the ground, but for now he was somewhat at peace.

Cedric was elsewhere, probably sleeping on a makeshift pallet in one of the rooms—all of the real bedding had been looted long ago. He and Rowe had been trading off shifts in the throne room, so that Drake and Ravyn were never alone with whichever seditionist was on duty. Most of the men and women were rational enough and not inclined to violence, but some warranted caution.

Gavin, the man who had drawn the short straw for the late night shift, was one of the latter. Right now he was pacing the room, muttering unhappily under his breath. Rowe just listened to the cadence of his footfalls and thought hazily about sitting up because he was growing drowsier with every passing minute…

Suddenly Gavin was talking out loud.

"I've heard that there's a secret room around here that holds all of Silvern's most precious treasures. That true?"

For a second, Rowe thought that Gavin was talking to him, but then he cracked open an eyelid and saw that Drake wasn't sleeping as he'd assumed. At his back, Ravyn was sound asleep, slouched in her chair with her cheek on her shoulder.

"No," Drake said to Gavin, sounding tired. He hadn't slept much over the past five days, understandably enough.

Gavin didn't look appeased by the answer and pressed on about how conniving King Richard was, and how he had probably hidden _something _away, and it certainly wasn't doing anyone any good where it was, so Drake should just tell him where to find it.

"Don't you think that if we had a secret treasure room somewhere, that we would have used the treasure to buy Silvern more food?" Drake asked wearily. Toward the end, they had begun selling everything of value in the castle to the North in a vain attempt to stave off starvation in the smaller villages.

Gavin thought for a moment.

"No," he answered. "I think you would have hoarded it, because that's what royalty does. They hoard and wait, like rodents. You're probably thinking right now that somehow you're going to get of this and be able to use the riches for yourself."

Drake just muttered something incoherent about blatant stupidity.

Gavin backhanded him so hard across the cheek that his chair spun several inches out.

Ravyn jerked awake with a gasp and tried unsuccessfully to see what was going on.

"Drake?" she asked in alarm. "Drake, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Rae. Go back to sleep. Everything's fine." His head was still spinning. The taste of warm blood rapidly filled his mouth and gnawed at his gag reflex.

Rowe's chair thudded back into its proper position, and he stood up.

"Violence isn't going to make him want to tell you anything," he said carefully to Gavin, trying not to sound too concerned.

"Nonsense," Gavin replied. "Violence always makes people more apt to talk."

He hit Drake again.

"It doesn't exist," Drake slurred. There was blood spilling from his mouth. "There is no secret treasure room."

Gavin brought his arm back for another blow. This time his hand was balled into a fist.

Rowe took two quick steps forward, but stopped himself.

"Not in front of his sister, at least," he said finally. It was the best he could do for both of them without Gavin growing suspicious. Rowe knew Drake would be grateful, though he could see that Ravyn was already going out of her head with worry.

Gavin considered for a few moments and finally lowered his fist.

"Fine," he said. "There's an empty room through there." He gestured toward a door at the far corner of the throne room.

"You aren't going to beat it out of me," Drake insisted. "It doesn't exist."

Gavin ignored him and pulled the key to the shackles from his pocket.

"He could escape," Rowe said, as one last effort. "I don't think Emmett would approve of such recklessness for the sake of—"

"Despite the way he acts, Emmett is not in charge," Gavin interrupted coolly. "I can do what I please." He seemed to second-guess himself though, before sticking the key into the cuff on Drake's wrist.

"If you try anything, I'll cut off your thumbs," he said to Drake.

Drake just glared silently at him. Gavin looked at Rowe.

"Aren't you going to help?" he demanded.

Rowe stepped closer, but didn't offer any immediate assistance.

"Just leave him alone," Ravyn pleaded.

"I will," Gavin said. "As soon as someone tells me where that treasure room is."

"There isn't one!" Ravyn cried. "He's telling the truth."

Gavin didn't look persuaded. He released one of the cuffs without any movement from Drake, and then he released the other one.

Drake punched him in the mouth.

Gavin yowled and pulled out his dagger. Rowe silently cursed himself for not seeing this coming. He didn't understand why Drake had to choose _this_ moment to be a fighter, especially since Gavin seemed intent on doing more with the knife than severing a thumb or two.

Rowe knocked into him sideways before the dagger had a chance to come down. He dragged Drake out of the chair by his arm and threw him unceremoniously to the ground a safe distance away from Gavin. Drake struggled, blinded by instinct, as Rowe put a knee in his back and jerked his wrists behind him.

"Not now," Rowe ordered into his ear. "Think about your sister." He didn't want to have to help Gavin pummel Drake to a pulp with Ravyn watching. Drake stopped fighting.

"Get over here with the shackles," Rowe snapped to Gavin, who was peeling himself off the floor and looking slightly disoriented.

Gavin did so without a word, but there was fire in his eyes. He slapped the cuffs on Drake's wrists and hauled him to his feet.

As Gavin pushed Drake toward the door in the corner, Rowe was relieved to note that the dagger had fallen to the ground and had not been retrieved. One less thing to worry about.

As soon as he and Ravyn were left alone, Rowe dropped to his knees in front of her and squeezed her hand in his. She was crying.

"It's going to be okay," he said softly. "He won't kill him."

"That doesn't make me feel better! You have to stop him, Rowe. Please, you have to!" Her voice was steadily building in volume, and Rowe had to shush her for fear that Gavin or someone else would overhear.

"I can't," he said, hating the way she looked at him when he said it, like he was letting her down. No, worse—like he was betraying her. "I _can't_, Ravyn. Gavin already doesn't trust me. If they suspect that Cedric and I aren't on their side, they'll probably kill us both. Then there will be no hope for you and Drake."

"I don't care about any of that!" Ravyn cried. "You have to help him."

From behind the door in the corner, muffled sounds began to take form, and they were decidedly unpleasant.

"Rowe, please," Ravyn whispered. Her hand was quivering in his. "He's my brother. Please…"

Rowe stared into her moist eyes for a long while. Finally, without a word, he stood up and disappeared into the corner room. Ravyn forced her breathing to calm and tried to hear what was going on behind the closed door. She could hear angry shouting, though she couldn't make out words. There was some thumping, a crash, and more shouting. After what seemed like an eternity, the door swung open.

Rowe appeared first, leading Drake by the arm. Drake was limping, his eye was starting to swell, and his mouth was still leaking a startling amount of blood.

"Drake," Ravyn said through tears of relief. "Drake." She couldn't think of anything else to say.

Gavin was coming out of the room, so Rowe had to lead Drake straight to his chair and shackle him immediately. Drake didn't have the strength to speak, but he looked at Rowe with silent gratitude. Rowe just nodded shortly and returned to his chair against the wall.

An ugly sort of quiet gripped the room. As Gavin neared, Ravyn could see a narrow, darkening bruise across his cheekbone that was strangely reminiscent of a table edge or a doorframe. Ravyn suspected that Rowe had a hand in putting it there. Gavin didn't say a word. He just walked to the opposite wall and sat down on the floor, long legs outstretched, as if nothing at all had happened.

Emmett and Liza came into the throne room, bleary-eyed and yawning.

"I thought I heard shouting," Emmett said to Gavin, who shrugged. He looked at Rowe, who also shrugged.

"I told you it was nothing," Liza said, yawning again. Then she caught sight of Drake.

"What is this?" she demanded, instantly awake.

"He tripped," Gavin said shortly, watching Rowe to see if he was going to rat him out.

Rowe just leaned his chair back against the wall, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. He had already racked up enough suspicion for one night. Letting Gavin feel indebted to him might help his case when push came to shove.

Liza glanced angrily between Gavin and Rowe, as if trying to decide who was to blame.

"I'm going to find a clean rag," she muttered finally. "I can't believe that you two imbeciles were just going to let him keep bleeding like that."

Gavin shrugged again. Rowe didn't move.

Emmett just sighed, realizing that he was going to have to stay in here and keep an eye on things. Dawn was hours away, and it would be days before they received word from Grey. It dismayed him somewhat that he no longer cared how any of this turned out—whether they succeeded in their mission or whether the monarchy triumphed in the end. Emmett just wanted it to be over. He wanted that eternal crease in Liza's brow to dissipate so he could hold her in his arms like he used to—without fear or worry filling the space between them.

When this had started, he had been on fire with passion for the cause. The nights had been full of planning and intrigue, and the days had been full of training and hope. They were doing right, and therefore they couldn't fail.

That unwavering certainty had been the first thing to dissolve, and then the passion, and then the hope.

Emmett closed his eyes and wondered vaguely if dawn would ever come at all.


	48. Freedom

_I would say that Freedom is more a state of mind than a state of being._

_--Avalyn, noted Tevouin philosopher_

When the letter from Asher came, Rowe was lying on his back, counting the crossbeams in the ceiling of the throne room. He knew exactly how many there were, but he recounted every couple of days anyway, because there was nothing better to do. He had practically memorized the layout of the castle by now and had run out of ways to amuse himself. Cedric had pointed out once that his time might be better spent formulating a plan. Rowe had just shrugged and commented that eighteen of the seventy crossbeams were crooked.

Cedric had sighed and let the subject drop.

As the messenger ran in with the fateful letter, shouting excitedly to Emmett and Liza, Rowe sat up and exchanged a glance with Drake. They had hoped for a chance at escape before the letter came. Now all they could do was hope that it didn't contain a death sentence—that, and be prepared in the event that it did. Rowe fingered the hilt of his sword and watched in silence as Liza read the message.

She finished decoding it in her head and looked at Emmett. He was pale with waiting, and she suddenly wanted to kiss him rather than continue any of this. Reluctantly, she resisted.

"It says to kill them," she said softly. Emmett's shoulders sagged the slightest bit. He was no murderer, but then, neither was she.

But this was right.

Wasn't it?

"Well?" Gavin demanded as he entered with several others behind him. The left side of his face was bruised and a little swollen from an incident that he refused to talk about.

"Are you sure?" Emmett asked Liza shakily.

She nodded. There was more, of course, but she couldn't bring that up with the desert devil in the room. He was watching them now, warily, and drumming a tattoo into his sword hilt with his fingers. He hadn't moved yet, though.

"What?" Gavin asked impatiently.

"I…I don't think I can," Emmett confessed frankly, and Liza was reminded of how much she loved him. But someone had to do it.

"It says to kill them, doesn't it?" Gavin said, catching on despite the fact that they were both ignoring him.

Liza nodded lightly, just once. Her eyes didn't move from Emmett's.

The room was still.

"So you're both dedicated enough to the cause to waltz around and issue orders like you're in charge, but neither of you can step up to the task at hand." Gavin shook his head in disgust, and then he pulled out his dagger and walked over to Ravyn.

"No!" Drake struggled vehemently at his restraints, but to no avail. He looked wildly toward Rowe, but Rowe was gone.

"It will be quick," Gavin promised, as if that made everything all right. He raised the dagger to Ravyn's neck.

Ravyn jerked her chin to the side and bit him so hard on the hand that he dropped the weapon into her lap, wailing in pain. Suddenly Rowe was behind him, kicking the back of his knee and shoving him with enough force that he hit the floor before he'd realized what had happened.

"I don't want to kill anyone," Rowe said, standing between the royals and seditionists with his sword drawn. "But I will if I have to."

"Tevouin dog," Gavin snarled from the ground. "I knew you were a traitor."

Rowe kicked him in the shin without glancing down, and Gavin howled in protest, dragging himself backwards a safe distance before climbing to his feet.

"You're outnumbered," Emmett said carefully.

Rowe cast a brief glance across the seditionists—all of them tense with weapons drawn. Luckily, no one had a bow.

"I'll take my chances," Rowe said, though he hoped he wouldn't have to. He hoped that Cedric would come rushing in with some brilliant plan, though he suspected that it was too late for all of them anyway. It suddenly occurred to him that counting crossbeams probably _wasn't_ the best way to spend his free time.

"Rowe…" Ravyn started softly, but it was hardly more than a whimper. It didn't matter anyway, because she didn't know what she had planned on saying. The thought of dying here, before she had the chance to spend the rest of her life with him, crushed the air out of her lungs.

"You don't want to do this," Drake said suddenly, turning his head to look Emmett in the eye. "Not really."

Well, of course I don't want to, Emmett thought to himself. But someone had to—it was the _right_ thing.

"Silvern deserves to be free, not tossed with the whims of one man."

"You're willing to _murder_ them because one man wrote you a letter telling you to do it!" Rowe interjected.

His words sent a ripple of stark realization through the crowd. Some of the weapons began to lower hesitantly.

Rowe pushed forward, spurred by his small success.

"Silvern deserves to be free, and Asher too, but not like this." He realized subconsciously that he was echoing Naima's words to Owen—it seemed so long ago now. "Never like this."

Emmett and Liza almost looked convinced, as did the majority of the seditionists. At any rate, they didn't answer back. Gavin, however, stepped forward with a scowl.

"You're cowards, the lot of you," he snapped, referring to his comrades as well as Rowe. "If we want freedom, we have to _take_ it."

With those words, he yanked Emmett's sword from its sheath and charged. Rowe ducked the first swing and blocked the second. He put all his weight into his sword, trying to push Gavin back before Ravyn or Drake got a blade in the neck, accidentally or otherwise. Gavin outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds, and Rowe had to sacrifice his footing for force. This proved to be a mistake when Gavin pulled abruptly to the side.

Rowe flew forward into Emmett, who tried to hold him back while Liza shouted at Gavin to stop. Gavin didn't stop. He whirled on Drake with his sword poised to kill. Rowe rammed his elbow into Emmett's sternum to free himself, and then dove forward to plough into Gavin's knees—bringing them both to floor with a tremendous thud.

Gavin's sword skittered across the granite floor, just out of reach. He snarled in a way that was decidedly animalistic and kicked Rowe off him. Then he grabbed the back of Rowe's head and slammed his forehead into the stone.

Rowe's world exploded into a shockwave of pain that fired through his body, and he could have sworn that something cracked. For a moment, all was light and haze and color and sound, and all he could do was wonder why he had to do all the work, and shouldn't Cedric or Emmett or Liza or somebody do _something_?

And then his world slid back into focus like a key into a lock, and Ravyn was screaming his name, and his fingers wrapped around his sword hilt of their own accord, and he was up and running—though stumbling was closer to the actual movement.

Gavin turned and met his sword with a force that vibrated through Rowe's arms and torso. His head still wavered on the brink of blackness, and a faraway voice in his mind was shouting at him. _Rowe, blast it, if you don't learn to block your left side, it's going to be the death of you one day! _ He remembered Astra swinging her practice sword repeatedly at his left shoulder. _Block. Block. Block—no, don't bloody dodge! Block! _

Gavin's sword was coming in fast to his left, and he brought up his sword to block it. The resounding clang sent more ripples of pain through his body, but a feeling of satisfaction doused his mind, turning it black at the edges—or maybe that was the pain. Everything was blending together into a jumble of swords clashing and his heart thumping and Astra in the back of his head, telling him that if he gave up now, then he was hardly worth the effort in the first place. She had never really meant it, but it had always made him push harder anyway, and so he did that now, pushing through the cloud of blackness and back into the fight.

He fought and fought and fought, until suddenly he was on the floor once more, this time with his sword out of reach. His head was freefalling again, away from any source of coherency. He vaguely collected that he was right next to Ravyn's chair, but Gavin's sword was coming down on him first, and for one selfish second he was just glad that he didn't have to watch her die.

Steel crashed against steel, and suddenly Cedric was there, fighting. All Rowe could think was, _Finally_. He thought he could hear Ravyn calling his name, but then maybe it was Astra again, or Naima. They were all merging into one single voice, and that, in turn, melted into a single low hum at the base of his skull. He let his head drop back and stared inconclusively at the crossbeams. _One two three…four…five…_

"Rowe! Rowe, come on. You have to get up!"

The incessant shaking dragged him back into consciousness, and Ravyn's voice prompted him to open his eyes. The nearness of her face made his eyes cross momentarily, and he shut them again. He could hear voices—Cedric shouting at Liza, and Liza shouting back. Emmett was shouting at both of them, and Drake sounded like he was trying to calm them all down, but Rowe really didn't care because Ravyn's cool hands were suddenly on either side of his face, and it felt undeniably like paradise.

"You have to get up," she murmured.

He opened his eyes and saw that she was on the brink of tears. The movement sent waves of nausea and agony through his body, but he sat up slowly.

"How long was I out?" he mumbled, barely coherent.

"Only a few minutes." She still cupped his face in her hands, as if she could ease the torment in his head through touch alone.

He had to admit that it was working somewhat.

"How long was I out?" he asked, wondering why his head refused to clear. He had been unconscious before, but it had never felt like this.

Ravyn stared mutely at him.

"What?" he asked self-consciously.

"You just asked that…" she said slowly. There was an unmistakable tremor in her voice. "Don't you remember?"

He didn't remember. He wasn't even sure what they were talking about now. For a moment he thought it was delirium, but this was worse. Memories and thoughts skated through his mind, in and out of focus, and he couldn't concentrate on any of them. Panic bubbled in the back of his throat, and he pushed it down.

"Of course I remember," he said. "Everything's just a little hazy. I'm fine. What's going on?"

Ravyn still seemed worried, but she didn't press the issue.

"Well, we're in sort of a…situation," she said, looking nervous.

Rowe glanced past her and realized what all the shouting was about. Gavin was on his knees, hands clasped behind his head. Cedric stood behind him, holding both their swords. He had obviously talked Emmett and Liza into releasing Drake and Ravyn from their shackles, and now he was demanding that the seditionists back off and let them leave unharmed.

Gavin insisted that they let Cedric kill him, and then gut the desert devil like a pig. Liza told him to shut up, because he wasn't helping anything. Emmett told them to both be quiet, so he could just _think_ for a moment. The other seditionists were just watching the whole scene in speechless uncertainty.

Rowe sighed. A situation, indeed.

He climbed tentatively to his feet, half-expecting his legs to give out and send him back to the floor in an ungraceful heap, but despite a rather excruciating headache, he was feeling better.

"Fine," Emmett said decisively to Cedric. He waved his comrades away from the door. "If you'll release Gavin, then you can all leave. We won't follow." He actually sounded a little relieved.

"We can't trust you," Drake said darkly. Cedric nodded in agreement.

"The only one of us who has used force so far is Gavin," Liza said pointedly. "And he's unarmed. Release him and leave."

Everything was still for the space of several heartbeats.

"Very well," Cedric said warily. He took a step back from Gavin, but didn't lower his guard.

Gavin stood up, took three steps toward his comrades, and then whirled to face Cedric again.

"Gavin," Emmett snapped. "It's over."

"I don't think so," Gavin said. He watched Cedric with narrowed eyes. "I don't think you'd really kill me."

"Gavin, get over here," Liza cried exasperatedly.

"Listen to her," Cedric warned, but there was a trace of hesitation in his voice. He wasn't willing to cut down an unarmed man in order to escape, and Gavin had a recognizable fire in his eyes. He wouldn't be moved by anything less than death.

"Where's that dagger?" Rowe asked Ravyn quietly.

"Why? What are you going to do?" Ravyn's brow was furrowed in worry.

"Hopefully get us out of here. Please, just give it to me."

Ravyn looked indecisive, but she handed him the knife that Gavin had dropped in her lap.

Rowe took a brief moment to straighten his tangled mind into something vaguely resembling coherence and then moved to confront Gavin. He dipped dangerously to the side a couple of times, but managed to remain upright.

"I suggest you get out of our way," he said to Gavin in a low voice. The quiet tone was mostly due to his pounding headache, but it did manage to add an air of menace to his words.

Gavin looked over Rowe appraisingly. He noted the dagger, but didn't seem unduly concerned.

"Go ahead and try it, devil," he scoffed. "I'll drop you like I did before, only this time it will be permanent."

Rowe's jaw twitched, but he stayed calm. He raised the dagger slowly, holding the hilt between three fingers as if it were a rose or something equally innocuous.

"Ever seen a Tevouin dagger trick?"

A dull, yet panicked, roar erupted among the seditionists—instigated mostly by Ewan who had slipped in at some point and was now whispering excitedly about severed body parts, despite Emmett's repeated admonitions to shut up _now_.

"Gavin, just stop this," Liza said, sounding genuinely nervous.

"You'll want to listen to her," Rowe said, keeping his voice measured and sure. It was taking an immense amount of concentration to simply remain coherent, and the concentration only served to enflame his headache more.

For a moment, it looked like Gavin was going to listen, but then his pride got the better of him, and he shook his head. Maybe he suspected that Tevouin dagger tricks weren't as deadly as legend had made them seem.

Momentarily, Rowe was set back, but he refused to stop this ridiculous flirtation with death now—not when he was so close to success. So, hoping an opportunity would present itself, he tossed the knife straight up into the air. Maybe there _was_ some truth buried beneath all the rumored nonsense. If there was some sort of latent power that came with being a Tevouin, now would be the time for it to rear its head.

All eyes, including Gavin's, followed the dagger in fearful anticipation. Rowe glanced at it as well, and when it didn't appear to be doing anything remotely magical or deadly in its ascent, he shrugged to himself and punched Gavin in the face.

Gavin stumbled back, and Rowe plucked the dagger from the air. He looked at Cedric, who nodded sharply and headed for the door without a word. Drake followed him quickly with Ravyn in tow. Rowe was the last to leave, taking the time to scoop up his sword and cast Emmett and Liza a parting glance.

"I didn't think that Tevouin dagger tricks really existed," Drake said to Rowe as they rushed through the corridors.

"They don't. I sort of expected him to back off before it came to that point."

"There's no way that they'll just let us leave. How are we going to get the horses saddled before they catch up?"

"The horses are already saddled," Cedric announced.

"They are?" Rowe asked, sounding impressed.

"What did you think I was doing that whole time you were losing miserably to Gavin?"

"I don't know—being useless? And I wasn't losing, I was..." But Rowe's head hurt too badly to formulate a comeback, so he let the subject drop. Besides, he _had_ been losing miserably.

In the throne room, Emmett was beginning to regret acting like a leader all this time, because now everyone was looking at _him_ for direction. He knew that most of them, especially Gavin, wanted to chase after them. There was no reason not to. With a few well-placed arrows, this could all be over.

The remnants of his lost passion welled up in Emmet's chest suddenly, and, before he could lose his nerve, he told them to go—to end it. Liza touched his arm lightly, and he stared back at her, realizing with some relief that she looked just as conflicted.

"There have to be sacrifices," she said softly.

Emmett nodded slowly, but he couldn't help but think that she sounded as if she were trying to convince herself.

"Are you going after them, Emmett?" Ewan demanded. He was too young and naïve to understand the implications of all of this. He just wanted more chasing and swordfights.

Emmett wanted to say no, but he knew he had to. This was the bed he had made, and he had to lie in it, or else he might never sleep again.

"Stay with Liza," Emmett ordered.

"Sure," Ewan said with a nod, in his way that really meant "Not on your life."

Emmett didn't have time to threaten him, though. He ran out the door and down the corridor, stopping briefly to grab a bow and quiver from his room. He strongly suspected that the two royals would know about the shortcut to the front courtyard through the servants' wing, which meant they were probably already there and would be gone before anyone else arrived.

Unless he ran faster.

Emmett picked up his speed and took the shortcut, which was only shorter if one could maneuver the mazy halls without getting lost. After months of exploring, he knew them better than the back of his hand.

This was why Cedric was forced to pull up short as he rode his horse out of the stables—Emmett was standing in the gateway with a fitted arrow aimed at his chest. The others reigned in their horses behind him. Except for the horses' impatient snorting and stamping, everything was quiet.

"I don't want to," Emmett said shakily. "But I have to. Silvern has to be truly free, and I don't see any other way."

"Silvern is dying," Drake said. "Give us a chance to make it right."

Emmett hesitated, but his aim didn't waver.

"Emmett!" Ewan broke into the courtyard, having used the same shortcut that Emmett now silently cursed himself for showing the lad.

"Ewan, leave!" Emmett shouted, but Ewan kept coming and stopped at his side.

"Are you going to kill them?" he asked, and there was excitement in his voice.

Excitement.

And that's when Emmett knew that he had to let them go.

"No," he said to his brother, lowering his weapon and stepping aside.

Cedric didn't hesitate to spur his horse through the gap, with Rowe and Ravyn close behind. Drake started to follow, but lingered momentarily, eyes on Emmett.

"Just go and make this right," Emmett said. He glanced briefly at his brother. "If there is even any right to be had."

Drake nodded once and nudged his horse into a canter, and then a gallop, to catch up with his friends.

Liza ran into the courtyard.

"Ewan!" she cried. "You slippery little—" She stopped short, seeing Emmett in the gateway, looking defeated. Next to him, Ewan looked confused.

"What happened?" she demanded, suddenly remembering that there was supposed to be a showdown happening in the courtyard, which was distinctly empty. She could hear the others nearing behind her. They didn't know the shortcut and had to take the long route.

Emmett didn't answer, and Ewan was just staring blankly out the gate, mouth slightly agape. Liza joined them in the gateway and could see what Ewan stared at. The four horses and riders were swiftly turning into nothing but a cloud of dust on the horizon.

"Oh…" she said.

Emmett looked at her, battling the urge to tell her what he'd done with the certainty that she would surely hate him forever, because she had fought harder for the cause than anyone else. He suddenly just wanted to take her into his arms and tell her that it would be all right, even if he didn't believe himself, and even though she could always see right through him.

He just wanted that space between them that was filled with fear and worry to dissipate.

"I let them go," he said abruptly.

The words hung like an execution sentence in the air, but Liza turned and looked him in the eye.

"I know," she said. "That's why I married you."

For the first time in what might as well have been forever, Emmett took his wife into his arms, pulled her in so tightly that there was no space left between them, and kissed her.

Ewan gave them two seconds of respectful silence before voicing his disgust. Loudly.

"_And_ I don't understand why you let them go," he added.

"I know," Emmett said, draping his arm around his little brother's shoulders and not breaking eye contact with his wife. "That's why I had to."

"You don't make sense when you're making lovey eyes at Liza," Ewan complained.

Emmett and Liza both laughed, and Emmett started walking out the gates and down the path, keeping his arm around his brother and his hand in his wife's. The remaining seditionists came into the empty courtyard and milled around uncertainly.

The Tevouin horses were missing; they were obviously too late. Surely Emmett or Liza would know what to do. Where were they, anyway? And where was Ewan for that matter?

No one had an answer.

Only those who walked as far as the gate caught a glimpse of the three heading down the hill and out of sight, laughing as they went.

* * *

((A/N: The hand-biting is for Slipshod. And no, I don't care that it's weird to dedicate a hand-biting. If you leave a nice review, I might dedicate something utterly random to you as well.

Chapters remaining: 5 ))


	49. Stories

"_Stories are lived, not told." _

_--The poet Ettne_

Sunset fell quickly on the four riders, who had been riding hard since their narrow escape from the Silvernian castle. As the sky began to blush pink and orange, they slowed their horses to a walk and looked at each other wordlessly.

"Now what?" Ravyn asked at length.

For a long while, no one had an answer. Cedric stared at the sky in contemplation, thinking inexplicably of his cousin Julia and hoping that she had managed to stay out trouble. Rowe was slumped in his saddle, glaring hard at the back of his horse's head and willing his vision to stop swimming dizzily.

"I don't know," Drake said finally. "I really just—" He paused, struck by a sudden thought. "I have to go to Asher."

"What? Why?" Ravyn asked in surprise. Cedric and Rowe looked at him strangely as well.

"Silvern is worse off than I thought," Drake said, growing defensive. "It's my last hope."

"I don't understand," Ravyn said. "What can you do in Asher?"

Drake hesitated.

"He can marry Princess Saria," Cedric said grimly, catching on first.

Ravyn looked at her brother in horror.

"Drake, you _can't_!" she cried.

"Technically, Cyrus is still bound to the contract," Drake said quietly. "As am I."

"A contract that was made without your consent! Without _her_ consent!" Ravyn had to pause to catch her breath. She looked at Rowe for support, but he remained completely withdrawn from the conversation. "There has to be another way."

"There isn't, Rae," Drake said painfully. "I can't leave Silvern to this fate. With Cyrus's help, maybe I can set things right again."

"She doesn't want to marry you!"

"It's her duty," Drake snapped. "Just as it is my duty to save Silvern."

Ravyn stared at her brother in open-mouthed shock. Never in his life had he seemed so much like their father. She had thought that the time with the Tevouins had changed his perspective on things, but now that Silvern's looming demise hung immediately over their heads, Drake had fallen back into the unswerving, unrelenting course that had been chosen for him long ago.

Ravyn wanted to argue, but a part of her knew that he was right. This _was_ the only way to save Silvern.

She just wished she knew why the right thing to do felt so very wrong.

* * *

Shortly after her encounter with Cadmus in the library, Saria found a new knapsack—her old one was practically falling apart—filled it with all the necessities for a long journey, and began plotting the best way to slip out unnoticed, as Madam Porter had her ladies watching her like a hawk.

When the initial excitement of the moment faded, though, the knapsack got shoved under the bed. Despite herself, Saria fell back into the routine of her old life, and the thrill of adventure slowly withered into a pleasant memory, until finally, barely two weeks later, she couldn't remember the taste of that life at all.

She spent her days perfecting her embroidery techniques and sneaking visits to Cadmus in the library. She largely ignored her father, and he largely ignored her, and Saria came dangerously close to some level of contentment.

She didn't miss Jackson as much as she thought she would, but occasionally Cadmus would tell a funny story, or one of the ladies would say something ridiculous, and Saria would want to tell her brother. Then the numbing realization would settle in her stomach, and she would want to cry, but Cadmus would launch into another tale, or the oblivious lady would keep on with her ridiculous tirade, and Saria would just have to laugh.

The knapsack stayed under the bed. She told herself that she was just waiting for the right time, but as the days passed, Saria realized that the only thing she was waiting on was her own lagging resolve.

And so the knapsack remained, gathering dust and always nagging at the back of Saria's head.

_You're not an adventurer_, she told herself sternly as she lay awake one night. _You were never any good at it anyway, and were it not for Alden and Rhodry, you would have been killed. There is no reason for a princess to be gallivanting around the country. _

No reason at all.

And the last thing Saria did before she drifted off to sleep was wonder vaguely when exactly she had started sounding so much like Madam Porter.

* * *

The Silvernian castle resided near the border, and so, by the second day of hard riding, the cold gray of Silvern had melted into the vibrant green of Asher. The sun set lazily behind the horizon, leaving a chill in its wake—the first sign that spring was drawing to a close. Asherian summers were generally cold and damp.

The four riders bedded down for the night in a small fir grove that rested several hundred yards off the road. While Drake and Cedric went in search of firewood, Rowe lay back on the springy pine needles and let the swirling colors overhead settle slowly in his vision. The dizziness had subsided substantially—only emerging when he made sudden movements. The pain in his head had dwindled into a dull, persistent ache. At least his thoughts had cleared up, though he couldn't recall the handful of events leading up to the blow to the head, and the events directly after were frustratingly hazy.

Ravyn sat down beside him.

"How do you feel?" she asked, gingerly placing her hand on his forehead.

Rowe shrank away from her touch.

"That hurts," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.

"There's a lump on your forehead," she replied with a frown. "It's purple."

"So quit _touching_ it," Rowe snapped.

Ravyn ignored him and placed her hand on the side of his face. Her life as a princess had not been conducive to any type of medicinal wisdom, but she had learned enough from watching Naima to at least check his temperature—though she didn't know what she would do if he actually had a fever.

"You're going to have to stop getting yourself knocked unconscious," Ravyn said, absently running her fingers down his cheek. "I don't think I can stand the worry."

Rowe propped himself up on his elbows and seemed to contemplate this for a moment.

"That's probably not going to happen," he said frankly.

Ravyn sighed and dropped her hand.

"I guessed as much," she said resignedly.

Rowe watched her profile for a few seconds, and then impulsively reached up to touch her face, brushing some hair away from her eyes.

"What if I just promise to always wake up?" he said softly.

Ravyn smiled.

Drake and Cedric came back into the small clearing, both with an armload of wood. Rowe pulled his hand away quickly, and Drake deposited his load pointedly between them. Ravyn rolled her eyes and hugged her knees to her chest against the evening chill. Rowe just lay back again and closed his eyes.

"Your forehead is turning purple," Drake said flatly to Rowe, settling down on the other side of Ravyn.

"So I've been told," Rowe muttered without opening his eyes.

"I wish Naima were here," Ravyn said fretfully. "She would know if it's serious. She would—"

"Scold him roundly for losing _another_ fight," Drake said with an amused grin.

"For fighting at all," Rowe corrected. He was smiling as well.

"Who is Naima?" Cedric asked curiously as he stoked the fire.

"A friend," Ravyn answered promptly.

"Sister," Rowe said in the same breath.

"Teacher." Drake glanced skyward wistfully.

Cedric nodded.

Ravyn giggled suddenly.

"Remember when she suggested talking to the dragon?"

"We all thought she was crazy," Drake said, smiling.

"She _was_ crazy," Rowe said, still not moving.

"Wait," Cedric interrupted. "You talked to a dragon?"

"We were trying to save a little girl," Drake said.

"Who didn't need saving," Ravyn added.

"Remember Freda's face when Kat found out?" Rowe chuckled and sat up. "I thought Kat was going to kill her."

The three laughed.

"Well, Evren came pretty close to killing us, so I think Freda earned herself a few minutes of terror," Ravyn pointed out.

Cedric wanted to know who Evren and Kat were, and slowly stories began to take shape over the crackling fire. Most of them were about Naima, as the warmth of the moment began to unwind the taboo that had surrounded mention of her since her death. Cedric threw in some tales about his youthful years as an Asherian knight, and together they held concern about the future at bay until the moon was high in the sky.

* * *

((A/N: Just a fuzzy little chapter to give you a break from all the running around and death-defying stunts. I know these things must exhaust you. 

Now, as promised, it is random dedication time! –cue cheesy game show music-

To Bingo7, the first reviewer, I dedicate the first word of the chapter.

To Falchion, I dedicate Saria's brand new knapsack.

Greenjelly16 gets Rowe's purple forehead (here's to hoping that it isn't symptomatic of serious brain damage).

Irindiglo, (I'm running out of things to dedicate) the twelfth word on the fifty-fourth line (no, I have no idea what it is).

Twisp gets the word 'gallivanting'. Isn't it a cool word?

To Daring2dream, the word 'taboo', which is also a fun word and an even more fun board game.

To La Belle d'Italie, the last word of the story, for reasons that only vaguely make sense in my head.

Slipshod…there was no violence or animal roasting in this chapter. Let's pretend they catch a rabid squirrel and roast it. I dedicate the pretend squirrel-roasting to you. (Can you get rabies from eating an animal that had rabies?) I'll dedicate a rabies vaccination to you as well.


	50. Surprise

_A king should never underestimate the element of surprise. It is a powerful device—one that can prove infinitely beneficial or absolutely detrimental._

_-The Duties, Responsibilities, and Expectations of Royalty_

On the fifteenth day in the Month of the Bear, the royal breakfast of King Cyrus of Asher was interrupted by some rather shocking news.

"What do you mean, _coming here_?" Cyrus bellowed at the servant who brought the message.

"They're on the King's Highway, milord, coming from the direction of Silvern." The servant bobbed up and down in several hasty bows, as if hoping obeisance would ease the king's temper.

"That's impossible," Cyrus snapped.

"Begging pardon, but the knights who reported it are quite certain. There are two others with them. One of them is Sir Cedric, but the knights didn't recognize the other."

Cyrus glared hard at his bacon for several moments, trying to wrap his head around the news.

"How long?" he demanded finally.

"Maybe an hour, your majesty. Two at most."

"Fetch Marcin. I need him immediately."

"Yes, your majesty." The servant bowed a few more times for good measure and ran out of the room.

"Problems, father?" Saria inquired from the other end of the table. She had been too far away to hear who was coming, but, judging from the tomato-red hue of Cyrus's face, the news was fairly serious.

Cyrus stared at her for a few seconds, with the look of someone trying to figure out why a meat pasty had suddenly started talking, and then he went back to his meal without a word.

Saria sighed to herself and did the same.

A few minutes later, Marcin came in. He bowed politely to Saria, wearing his wheezy half-smile, and went to the king's side. Cyrus whispered fiercely in his ear for a while, slammed his fist on the table a few times, and then stuffed a piece of pork in his mouth.

"Of course, your majesty, I understand," Marcin said smoothly. "But I—"

"No," Cyrus growled around his mouthful. "There is no other option. I will _not_ have the Silvernian royals ruining my plans. Weren't they dead? Why can't people just stay dead anymore…This is preposterous." Cyrus stabbed another piece of meat and waved it at Marcin's nose.

"You're right," Marcin said. Saria could see the wheels in his head turning.

"Of course I am," Cyrus said harshly. "And I remember specifically telling you to take care of Sir Cedric, so why is he cavorting with the royals?"

"I beg your majesty's forgiveness." Marcin ducked his head dutifully. "I'll have it taken care of."

"I trust they will stay dead this time."

"Leave it to me, your majesty." Marcin nodded briefly and left the room.

Saria stared at her father wordlessly for several seconds. She could barely believe what she had just heard. Drake and Ravyn were alive? The notion made her head spin, but it wasn't even the most pressing question.

"You're going to have them killed?" she asked her father, barely able to bring her voice above a whisper.

Cyrus looked up sharply, as if just remembering that she was there.

"Go to your room," he said with a frown. "Attend a lesson, embroider something—just stay out of my way."

Saria wanted to argue, but she recognized the look in his eyes. She glanced down at the faint bruises on her arm and decided that now wasn't the time. She tossed her napkin on the table and jumped out of her seat before a servant even had a chance to pull the chair back for her.

As she hurried down the hall, her head was replete with conflicting thoughts and emotions. She came to a corner and stopped short, hearing Marcin's voice just around the bend. She bit her lip and glanced down the way she had come. She was alone in the corridor.

"Just do it quickly," Marcin was saying. "And make sure it's done right. No mistakes."

"We'll leave right away, sir."

"Well, what are you waiting for then? Go!"

"Yessir."

Saria heard footsteps in the opposite direction, and she realized with a start that Marcin had just sent some men after the royals. They were probably knights, though _assassins_ would be a more appropriate term.

She realized that Marcin was coming in her direction, and she hurried back the way she had come, hoping that she could make it around the corner before—

"Princess Saria!"

Saria caught her breath and kept walking. Maybe she could just pretend like she didn't hear him.

"Princess Saria!" Marcin caught up with her. He was surprisingly fast for such an old man.

"Oh, good morning, Marcin," Saria said, eyeing him carefully. She kept her hands behind her back, because they were shaking in a way that would most definitely give away the fact that she had been eavesdropping.

"I'm glad to see that you're doing well, your highness. It was quite a relief when you returned from your…err…escapades."

Saria nodded silently and started backing away. Marcin grabbed her arm. She swallowed hard in trepidation.

"A lady of your position would do well to avoid such escapades in the future," Marcin said lightly. His watery eyes, inset in a face full of wrinkles, were somehow dangerous.

Saria had the sudden, unnerving notion that he knew very well she had been listening from around the corner.

"I w-w-will," she stuttered, looking down in mild terror when he didn't release her.

"Good," Marcin said. He patted her cheek and smiled tightly. "I'd hate to see such a pretty girl get hurt."

He planted a kiss on her knuckles and walked away.

Saria wiped her hand anxiously on her skirts and decided that she had to tell someone immediately about the impending murder. As she turned to go, though, she realized with a sickening jolt that there was no one to tell. The king himself had ordered the deed, and his top advisor was orchestrating it. They were the two most powerful men in Asher—there was no one else she could turn to.

_Go warn them yourself._

The thought rang clearly in her head, and she immediately dismissed it. Of course that was ridiculous; it would be much better to send a servant.

But would the royals believe a servant? And would a servant be willing to go against the king?

There wasn't time for any of this!

She felt as if there were a clock in her skull, one that was _tick tick tick_ing relentlessly. Right now the knights were gathering their weapons, and very soon they would be in the stables preparing their horses, and then Drake and Ravyn would be as good as dead.

Which didn't leave her much time.

Saria didn't allow herself to consider the stupidity of what she was doing as she ran to the stables. She knew that if she did, then she would change her mind.

The stable boy was snoozing in a pile of hay when she came in, and she had to practically shout to wake him up, as he smelled too much like horse dung for her to even consider getting close enough to shake him.

"Waddya want?" he muttered crossly, after seeing who it was. Had it been anyone else, he might have shown a little more respect, but none of the serving staff particularly feared the princess.

"I need a horse," Saria said.

He raised a grubby eyebrow at her, and Saria guessed that she would have to be more specific.

"A fast one," she said. "And well-behaved."

The stable boy stared blankly at her for several seconds.

"Now!" Saria cried.

He climbed unhappily to his feet and went to the back of the stable, grumbling steadily under his breath. A few minutes later, he brought back a saddled horse. The mare seemed nice enough. At least, it didn't look ready to massacre her as soon as she mounted.

"Will this 'un be pleasing to you, your highness?" the boy said, with plenty of unmasked disdain.

"You're very rude," Saria said with a frown.

"So are you. I was _trying_ to enjoy a decent nap."

"I saved you from a cuffing for sleeping on the job. There are knights on their way here."

The boy stared for a few seconds, mouth agape, and then ran to start saddling horses. Saria tossed her hair regally and gripped the saddle horn to mount. The stirrup was a bit higher than she expected though, and she remembered that she had never mounted a horse before without Alden or Rhodry's help.

She glanced once toward the stable boy, but decided that asking him for help would be worse than struggling to mount on her own. She found a stool and dragged it over to the horse, which flicked its tail and snorted, but thankfully didn't move.

Saria stepped up, grasped the horn, hauled herself onto the saddle, and subsequently fell off the other side. She landed with an _oomph_ in the straw and stared angrily at the roof of the stable, while the stable boy took time from his work to laugh wildly at her.

Saria groaned softly and seriously considered going back to her room and forgetting all of this nonsense.

_They'll die._

She sat up straight, suddenly remembering that there was more at stake here than her own bruised ego. She climbed sorely to her feet and tried again—this time with more success—to mount the horse.

The mare responded readily to her hesitant lead, and she made it into the courtyard and out the front gates, right as four knights came out of the castle and headed for the stable.

The King's Highway stretched before her in split directions—one road twisting through the middle of Asher and the other breaking off toward Silvern. Saria took the Silvern route. She dug her heels into the horse's sides and leaned into its neck as the mare shifted smoothly from a canter to a gallop.

The sensation of the wind brushing her cheeks and tangling her hair put an inexplicable grin on her face. How could she have forgotten the thrill so quickly? A tiny voice in the back of her head was screaming that she should turn back now, that a princess shouldn't behave in such an atrocious manner.

But the thunder of the hoof beats made the voice easier and easier to ignore.

* * *

"So, do we have any sort of plan here?" Cedric asked.

They were a little more than half of an hour away from the Asherian castle, currently traveling at an easy trot, and no one had yet mentioned what they were going to do upon arrival.

"Ask Rowe," Drake said flatly. "He's the one with all the plans."

He and Rowe had been arguing sporadically all day, much to the annoyance of Cedric and Ravyn, and no amount of entreaty could persuade them to stop. Rowe shot Drake a glare, immediately taking offense, for no particular reason.

"Just because I think that going in with absolutely _no_ plan is a terrible plan, doesn't mean—"

"Well, when we don't know what to expect, I'd say that any sort of plan is just—"

"Great, well let's just ride in blindly. After all, it worked so well last time—"

"Just stop!" Ravyn cried exasperatedly. "Honestly, this is ridiculous."

"He started it," Rowe muttered.

Drake rolled his eyes.

"Oh, that's mature. What are you, nine?"

"Trust me, when I'm acting like a nine year-old, you'll know it." Rowe looked sideways at him with a smirk. "For starters, I would do something _really_ immature, like this—" He smacked Drake upside the head.

Ravyn immediately nudged her horse between them before Drake could retaliate.

"That's _enough_," she snapped, glowering at Rowe.

Rowe shrugged innocently and started to say something, but paused.

"Do you hear that?" he asked with a frown.

"What?" Ravyn asked, trying not to sound overtly worried. She couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary, and it was quite possible that Rowe's blow to the head was still presenting with symptoms.

He had repeated himself unwittingly for two days after the incident, and though he never mentioned it, she knew he was still suffering headaches and dizziness—it was hard not to notice the way he cradled his head at night or that he came close to falling off his horse every time he mounted. She hated seeing him like this. What he really needed was a few days' rest, but from the look of things, that wouldn't be happening for a long while.

"I can hear it too." Drake reined his horse in.

"Riders?" Cedric asked, following suit.

"Only one, I think," Rowe said.

"Should we run?" Ravyn asked.

"Why?" Rowe squinted in the bright sunlight, but the rider was still hidden from view on the other side of the rise. "The people who want to kill us are in the opposite direction."

"Actually, people in this direction want me dead as well." Cedric nodded toward the castle.

"Me too, come to think of it," Rowe said. "Maybe running isn't a bad idea."

"Too late," Drake said. The rider had made it over the rise and was steadily closing the gap between them.

Drake frowned in shock.

"That looks like—"

"Prince Drake! Ravyn!" Saria cried as she came into earshot. "We have to hurry!"

She jerked on her horse's reins as she neared. The mare responded more promptly than she anticipated, skidding to such a sudden stop that Saria flew right off. She hit the ground right on the edge of the embankment and kept rolling until she reached the bottom of the grassy incline.

The four riders stared after her in stunned silence, still trying to figure out what exactly was going on. Rowe was the first to find his tongue.

"Should somebody…help her?"

Drake snapped into action and dismounted. He made his way carefully down the incline, which was fairly steep, but thankfully soft with grass. The princess lay at the bottom in an ungraceful heap of blue lace and satin.

"Are you all right, your highness?" he asked, offering his hand as years of training kicked in instinctually.

Saria stared at him in bewilderment for a moment, cheeks flushed, but she took his hand and stood up. She moaned and tried to cradle her arm and hold her head at the same time, but nothing seemed to be broken. She swallowed her discomfort, and they climbed up the embankment to join the others.

"Excellent dismount," Rowe commented dryly.

Saria's cheeks flushed further, and she combed her fingers hastily through her knotted hair, scraping out bits of grass and leaves.

"What are you doing here?" Ravyn asked, sliding tentatively off her horse.

The question jerked Saria's attention back to the task at hand.

"You have to get off the road!" she cried. "There are knights coming to kill you!"

"What are you talking about?" Drake asked, his brows knitted in confusion.

"My father sent them, he—never mind. There isn't time to explain." Saria grabbed her horse's reins and started tugging it toward the embankment. There was a grove of trees at the base. If they could make it behind the tree line, then the knights would pass right by.

"That doesn't make any sense," Drake insisted. "Why would Cyrus—"

"I don't _know_," Saria cried. "There isn't time!"

Cedric dismounted.

"Maybe we should just get off the road," he said. "There will be time for questions later."

"Someone is definitely coming," Rowe said, jumping to the ground. The pounding hooves of incoming horses were unmistakable.

Saria started back down the incline. Her mare balked at first, uncertain about the steep slope, but with some persuasion and pulling, she managed to lead the horse down and into the shady grove. The others were following closely, and for a long while, the only sounds were the snorting and panting of the horses and the general commotion as all five of them tried to position themselves safely in the shadows. Everything finally settled down, and not a moment too soon.

Every breath was held as four knights thundered down the highway. They passed without a sideways glance—obviously intent on their mission.

Once they were out of sight, Drake released a breath and rubbed the back of his neck, baffled.

"This is insane," he muttered. "It just doesn't make any sense."

"Well, we can't go to the castle now," Ravyn said.

"We have to get out of the country," Cedric said. "When those knights return and tell the king that they couldn't find us, he'll send out more to scour the countryside."

"He can't have that many left," Drake pointed out. "He sent his entire army to the Great Desert."

Saria watched them converse in silence. She could still barely believe that Drake and Ravyn were alive. If she had come across them anywhere else, she wouldn't have recognized them.

Ravyn looked much older, with her dark hair swept haphazardly away from her sunburned cheeks. The laughter in her pale green eyes had faded somewhat, though that could have had something to do with the dark circles under them. She looked like she hadn't slept for a while, just like the other three.

Drake, on the other hand, looked inexplicably younger, despite the unease that currently etched lines into his face. His posture had relaxed considerably, and he was no longer the picture of tidiness, with disheveled hair and a dark stain on the front of his shirt. Saria had a disquieting thought that the stain was blood. He had a narrow gash by his eye that was swollen slightly.

Saria wondered where they had been for the past two months, and how they had ended up in the company of the other two men, both of whom were armed. She dimly recognized Sir Cedric, but she couldn't imagine what he was doing with the royals, or why her father wanted him dead.

She looked at the younger man. He was staring at her. Saria held his gaze for several seconds before he broke away. He seemed suddenly ill at ease, though he had been the one to make the snide comment earlier about her graceless dismount.

Saria bit her lip and looked down. He only seemed vaguely familiar, but his sharp blue eyes reminded her so strongly of Jackson that she had to concentrate to keep her own eyes from welling with tears.

Ravyn glanced between Rowe and Saria. She was the only one who understood why the princess's presence made Rowe so uncomfortable. Except for his brief interruption of the royal banquet and the incident at the botched wedding—both of which only afforded a brief glimpse—he hadn't seen his sister in ten years. Ravyn couldn't imagine what thoughts were racing through his head right now.

"We have to go to the castle," Rowe said suddenly.

Everyone stared blankly at him.

"The _Asherian_ castle?" Cedric asked unbelievingly. "They'll kill us."

"Maybe." Rowe looked preoccupied. "But Drake is right. This is our last chance."

"Last chance for what?"

Rowe shot a single glance toward Saria.

"To do the right thing."

"But we'll never make it into the castle," Cedric said.

"Who knows that Cyrus ordered us to be killed?" Drake asked Saria, looking thoughtful.

"Just Marcin, the head advisor," Saria replied. "And the knights he sent, of course."

"Well, I don't see why we can't just go right in," Drake said. "After all, we'll have the Crown Princess as our escort."

Rowe nodded in agreement. Cedric sighed, but didn't offer any more objections.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Saria asked, addressing all four of them. She hadn't really known what to expect from them when she rode out here, but this was definitely the last course of action she would have foreseen.

"We'll certainly have the element of surprise," Ravyn said with a small smile.

And so it was decided.

* * *

To Billi, the bestest beta reader in the world, I dedicate every piece of proper grammar and punctuation in the chapter (which, thanks to her, is everything).


	51. Atrocity

"_The great atrocity of humanity is that individuals live under the impression that they are indeed individuals, instead of realizing that we are part of a complex web of cause and effect—that in the end we are all inescapably linked, whether by our sins or our virtues, but linked all the same."_

_-__Ageless Philosophies for a Perpetual Society_

The air of the king's council chamber was stale with trepidation, empty words, and tawdry praise. King Cyrus encouraged all three during the meetings with his advisors. He didn't want any of them getting the idea that they had influence over him. The question of Princess Saria's fate was currently being tossed around fruitlessly, as they had run out of foreign princes to wed her to. Because of Cyrus's intricate taxation system, there were no nobles that were wealthy enough to make a suitable match.

She had become a problem, though only the advisors seemed to care. Cyrus was sipping on the wine that Marcin had just set in front of him and looking generally unconcerned. His daughter's fate would be of little importance once his empire began to take shape. His army would be nearing the Great Desert by now, if they hadn't already arrived. After the Tevouins were dead, the knights could march straight to Silvern. Within a few months, he would be ready to move on to the southern countries. Ealatir would fall quickly, followed by Calypsia. His empire would be unprecedented in range.

His musings were interrupted when the door flew open. Silence fell over the room like a heavy blanket.

"What are you doing here?" Cyrus asked in shock.

"I'm sure your _majesty_ is already figuring this out, but if you want to murder someone, you should do it yourself," Sir Cedric said, with no little derision on the title.

The room exploded in surprised exclamations and collective hostility toward the insinuation that his majesty would dabble in murder plots. Only Cyrus and Marcin were silent. The former just took a deliberate sip of his wine. The latter moved away from the king, in anticipation of an impending show of violence. He cursed himself thrice for trusting those buffoons of knights with the deed.

Prince Drake stepped forward, and a hush swallowed the council. He and his sister looked positively dreadful, but very much alive. Perhaps the problem with Princess Saria could be remedied after all.

"How did you get in here?" Cyrus asked with forced civility. Council meetings were strictly confidential, and the guards should have never even let the arrivals into his private wing of the castle. He would have to invest in more competent sentries if he was going to be an emperor.

"First, I'd like to know why you ordered us killed," Drake said evenly.

A precarious quiet settled over the room.

* * *

_When they finally arrived at the castle, Saria led the way. Servants and guards looked strangely at the disheveled princess and her guests, but no one confronted them. Saria walked with as much purpose as she could muster, so as to deter any questions from their silent audience as they made their way to the king's private wing. _

_Madam Porter stepped out in front of Saria, undaunted by her attempt at purposefulness. Saria stopped short and tried not to wince as Madam Porter started into her characteristic ranting. _

"_Where in the king's name have you been? Look at you! Your dress is ruined. Your hair is—are those leaves? Dirt? You look positively barbaric!" Her voice was reaching the realm of screeching, and people were starting to stare. _

_Saria took a deep breath and wondered what she was getting herself into. _

"_That's _enough_," she said with stern finality. She batted Madam Porter's hands away from her hair. "I am perfectly capable of worrying about my own appearance. You are dismissed."_

_Madam Porter gaped. _

"_You are dismissed immediately," Saria reiterated, a little shocked at her own audacity. _

_Too horrified to formulate a response, Madam Porter stepped aside. Saria brushed past, followed by her guests—all of whom were holding back smiles. _

"_You've changed," Ravyn said appreciatively, once they were out of earshot. _

"_It happens," Saria said, trying to sound nonchalant, though a victorious smile crept onto her lips. "A trip to the Forbidden East would change anyone." _

"_The Forbidden East?" Drake echoed in surprise. _

"_You went?" Ravyn cried excitedly. "I can't believe it. What was it like?"_

"_Lots of snow and ice," Saria answered without embellishment. She was sorely tempted to tell about the natives and how she and Alden narrowly escaped a gruesome execution, but they had promised Suri and Runa that they wouldn't ruin their peaceful existence. "Alden and I almost froze to death while we were crossing the Great Divide." _

"_Who's Alden?" Ravyn asked, but jumped to her next question before Saria could reply. "Is the Great Divide as big as they say? You must have sailed on a ship to get there—what was it like? Did the—"_

"_You know, she can't answer if you don't let her get a word in edgewise," Drake said with a smile. _

"_I'm sorry, it's just so incredible to think about," Ravyn said, not calming down in the least. "It must have been such an adventure!" _

"_From the way you're talking, you would think we've spent the past two months stitching tapestries," Rowe said with a roll of his eyes. _

"_What _have_ you been doing?" Saria asked._

"_Finding different ways to get ourselves killed," Rowe quipped. _

"_It's not nearly that dramatic," Ravyn said, nudging his shoulder. She looked at Saria. "We just had a pleasant visit with the Tevouins."_

"_And a dragon," Drake added. _

"_And the seditionists," Cedric said. _

_Saria stared at them in astonishment._

"_I'm sure your adventure was much more exciting," Ravyn said. "Now tell me about the ship." _

_Saria obliged, though her mind was spinning with curiosity. She recalled stories about the _Celeritas_ and Fairden Forest and Whistle Point until they reached the northeast wing of the castle: her father's private wing. _

_There was a guard posted at the door, and he stared expressionlessly at Saria as they neared. _

"_I need to see my father," Saria announced. "It's urgent." _

"_Sorry, miss, can't do," the guard said with a bored yawn. His eyes swept once across the other four, but he didn't seem to recognize any of them. "The king is in council and will not be disturbed. He instructed me to not let anyone into his private wing." _

"_This is very important," Saria said, but she could already tell that he wasn't going to let her pass. _

"_I'm sure it is," the man said dully. "Perhaps you can come back later—"_

"_No!" Saria snapped, before she realized what she was doing. The man looked temporarily daunted, and she recalled the effect of her imperious playacting on the sailors of the _Celeritas_. _

"_I am the Crown Princess," Saria continued, gaining momentum from her own officiousness. "You are not _allowed_ to refuse me. You will step aside this moment, sir, or I shall have your head." _

_Exhilaration flooded her nerves and left her hands shaking. She had always wanted to say that. Behind her, Ravyn covered up a giggle with a cough. _

_The guard looked thoroughly intimidated. _

"_I…" he hesitated, weighing his previous orders against the princess's royal glare. "Of course, your highness. I beg your pardon." He dipped his head hastily in respect and opened the door. _

_Cedric led the way through the meandering corridors to the council chambers. Behind the tall oak door, there was the muffled sound of voices._

"_I'm going to stay out here," Saria said suddenly. "I don't—I'd rather just not go in." She tugged unconsciously on her quarter-length sleeve, trying to cover the bruises on her forearm. She had no desire to face her father right now, not even with the prince and princess of Silvern there to distract him. _

"_That's fine," Drake said absently. He was preoccupied with what exactly he was going to say to King Cyrus. _

"_I'm not going in either," Rowe said. _

_Cedric and Drake looked at him in surprise, as he had been the one to insist on coming. _

"_That's fine." Ravyn echoed her brother's words lightly and touched Rowe's arm. "I understand." He wasn't yet ready to face the root of his childhood fears. _

"_I don't," Drake said, but Ravyn silenced him with a pointed glare. "Fine." _

_He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. _

* * *

The council erupted into murmurs over the prince's curt accusation.

"Order you killed? Why would you even think such a thing?" Cyrus demanded, only putting a minimum amount of effort into sounding innocent. "After your sister's kidnapping, we were told that Tevouins murdered you."

"Not quite," was Drake's icy reply. "We have more to fear from you than from the Tevouins, if the assassins you just sent are any indication."

Cyrus shot a lethal glare at Marcin and rose to his feet.

"That's preposterous," he snapped. "How dare you accuse me of such atrocity? I am the king." His lips curved up smugly, and he took another drink of wine.

In a way that closely resembled trained dogs, the council jumped in with indignant arguments about the audacity of such allegations against their king.

"You see?" Cyrus said lightly when the roar had died down. "I assure you that I had no hand in this terrible matter. Now please, take a seat. We shall toast to your safe return." He gestured beneficently to the empty seats around the table and raised his wine glass.

"To Sir Cedric and the Silvernian Royals, that they may always evade death so skillfully."

His smile was pure venom, but the council issued a chorus of "Hear, hear!". The shrewdness underscoring King Cyrus's toast was apparently lost on them.

Outside in the corridor, Rowe listened thoughtfully to the cheering and glanced at Saria, who was leaning against the wall next to him.

"Sounds like a party in there," he commented dryly, watching as shafts of light from the windows caught the contours of her face. She was a spitting image of Cyrus. He wished she had more of their mother in her, because he couldn't remember what she looked like. It was Jackson who had inherited their mother's features; everyone had always said so. They had also said that Rowe had inherited his features so evenly from both of his parents that he really looked very little like either of them.

"Jackson," he said quietly, uncertain about the name on his tongue. It had been ten years. "How is he?"

Saria looked at him sharply, but dropped her gaze to her feet.

"He died a couple of weeks ago," she murmured.

Rowe caught his breath and turned his head. He had heard that the prince was ill, of course, but he had never thought…

His heart lurched, and suddenly ten years of pretending like he had moved on crashed into him like a load of bricks. He slid painstakingly to sit on the floor and wondered how he could have ever thought that none of this would catch up with him. When he was a boy, he had always felt responsible for his younger siblings. So how could he have deserted them like this—left them to the mercy of the monster who had driven his mother to depression, who had sent her one true love to the gallows, who had forced his eldest son to play a part in the unjust execution.

She tried to hide them, but Rowe could see the bruises on Saria's arm—bruises from a cruel hand, and he had a sick feeling that he knew who put them there. Did she even remember having another brother there to protect her?

"Rowe isn't my given name," he said softly.

"What?" Saria asked, glancing at him. Her mind had begun to drift in the uneasy silence.

Rowe looked up at her, his expression a volatile mix of regret and determination.

"My mother named me Roland."

* * *

_The castle stood in sharp contrast to the pale blue sky as the five riders made their way down the King's Highway. They traveled at a brisk pace, though slower than a gallop since the horses were all but spent. _

_The Asherian castle was a work of art. Its spires and arches seemed grown, not built, and the blue and gold pennants caught the sunlight as they rippled in the breeze. Many a poet and painter had been inspired by the sheer magnificence of it all. _

_The general commerce surrounding the castle began to thicken as they neared. Venders hawked their wares alongside the road, and peasants herded livestock with little concern for their disruption of the flow of traffic down the highway. _

_No one paid the five riders any special attention, and Saria suspected that her invigorating ride out of the castle and her tumble down the hill had left her in such a state of disarray that the common passerby would not recognize her. The few times that the public had seen her, Madame Porter had dolled her up so flamboyantly that Saria doubted she would have recognized herself in comparison. _

_No one had said much during the ride, except to toss around a few scattered ideas about what to do upon arrival. Mostly, everyone had remained trapped in their own troubled thoughts. _

_Saria glanced at the young man riding next to her, the one with the eyes like Jackson's. He had a rather nasty knot on his forehead that was tinted an interesting shade of violet. He was unshaven, and beneath a layer of traveler's grime, his face was permanently brown and raw from the scalding sun. _

"_You're a Tevouin, aren't you?" she asked, hoping it didn't sound like an accusation. She had never met one before. _

_His gaze met hers briefly, and he nodded wordlessly before looking away. Saria wondered why he seemed so uncomfortable with her. She knew that the Tevouins hated the monarchy, but he didn't seem scornful towards her—just ill at ease. _

"_I'm Saria," she said, trying to sound friendly. Maybe it was foolish, but his accent fascinated her, and she couldn't help but think that he was familiar somehow. _

"_I know," he said tightly. _

_Saria waited for several seconds in silence. _

"_Are you going to tell me your name?" she asked at length. _

_For a moment, he looked like he was seriously considering not doing so. _

"_Rowe," he said finally. "Everyone calls me Rowe." He didn't look at her. _

_Saria decided to take the hint and fell silent. _

_The sound of shouting merchants and complaining animals filled the silence. Ahead of them, the castle loomed large, somehow dark despite the glaring sun. _

* * *

"That's nice," Saria replied politely to Rowe's outburst. She had no idea why he was telling her this. "I had an older brother named Roland, but he died of the Black Scourge when I was six."

Rowe stared at her for a long while in silence.

"That's terrible," he said finally, looking down at his hands. "My condolences."

"I was very young, so I barely remember. It all happened very fast."

"Your highness!" A young maid with a basket of fruit tucked under one arm ran up, panting. "Please, I have to speak with you. It's urgent!"

A different guard than the one from the entryway came up behind her and grabbed her arm. The basket fell to the ground. Apples and pears tumbled aimlessly across the carpet.

"That's quite enough," the guard told her coldly as he pulled her away. "Her majesty does not wish to be bothered by your nonsense."

"Please!" the maid cried, trying in vain to yank her arm free.

"No, it's fine," Saria said to the guard. "What is it?"

"The king!" The maid was practically shouting. "I think he's been poisoned!"

Rowe stood up immediately and exchanged a glance with Saria.

"Are you sure?" Saria asked, stunned.

"No, but I saw—"

Rowe didn't wait for her to finish answering before he threw open the door to the council chamber. Everyone stared in shock at the princess and the Tevouin in the doorway.

"What the—" Cyrus began, but never finished. He slumped in his chair and began seizing violently.

* * *

_Julia stared sullenly at the swirling liquid in the wine glass before her. She had been in a sullen mood since Cedric had left, and balancing this heavy silver tray from the kitchens all the way to the northeast wing of the castle did nothing for her temper. She had been headed to the servants' quarters for her half-hour break when the guard had stopped her and told her that the king required a fresh glass of wine. _

_Julia didn't know why the guard couldn't just fetch it himself, but she knew better than to argue. When the king wanted wine, he would have wine. She wasn't allowed to have an opinion about it, even when his thirst conflicted with her long-anticipated nap. _

_When she finally reached the door to the king's private wing, the man guarding the door didn't step aside. _

"_The king's wine," Julia said impatiently, raising the tray a little. If she hurried, she could still snatch a few minutes of sleep._

_The man just nodded, not moving away from the door. _

"_I have to _give_ it to him," Julia said. The edge in her voice gave away her shortening temper. _

_The man seemed to be ignoring her. _

"_What is the matter with you?" Julia demanded. _

_The door behind him creaked open, and a stooped old man stepped out. Julia recognized him as one of Cyrus's advisors. _

"_Thank you, dear," he said with a prune-like smile, and took the glass off the tray. _

"_I can take it to him, sir," Julia said. She would much rather not, but after two years, servility had become her first nature._

"_No, that will be all," the old man said kindly. _

_He reminded Julia so strongly of her grandfather that she had to smile. He turned and stepped back into the corridor, and a split second before the door swung shut, Julia saw him pull a small pouch from his vest and dash it over the glass. He replaced the pouch right as the door clicked closed. _

"_Did you see that?" Julia asked, moving forward in alarm. _

_The guard sidestepped back to his post and eyed her coldly. _

"_The king requires medicinal supplements for his health," he said. _

"_But—"_

"_Leave," he said shortly. _

_Julia frowned. Her head told her to listen, but her heart was screaming that something was wrong. There was nothing she could do, though. The guard wasn't budging. _

"_Fine," she said. She turned on her heel and headed back the way she had come. All she had to do was fetch some fresh fruit from the kitchens and tell him that the council had called for some refreshments. He didn't seem very bright. Fooling him probably wouldn't take much effort at all. _

_She only hoped that she was overreacting. _

_

* * *

_(A/N: So I accidentally lied about the number of chapters left, but that doesn't really matter because I posted them all anyway. I considered making you wait in suspense, but ultimately decided that you've been patient enough. The only thing left to be posted is the Epilogue, which will hopefully be put up in a couple of days. To avoid any other cluttering author's notes, I shall say this now--loudly and with much pomp and circumstance- **Thanks so much to my dedicated readers, and even more thanks to my dedicated reviewers! You have made this worth the sweat and tears involved! I only hope that you gleaned some small piece of inspiration from this story--whether of peace, hope, redemption, or something else entirely. God bless and keep you all. **)


	52. Guilty

"_I am only truly guilty of one thing, and that is being a poet. The rest of my vices come with the territory." _

_-The poet Ettne_

For a long while, no one could speak. Then Cyrus slid to the floor with a thump, still writhing, and one of the advisors shouted for someone to find a doctor. No one moved. Cyrus started vomiting black bile, and suddenly there was something distinctly unreal about all of this. It simply couldn't be happening. Kings weren't supposed to die—not like this.

Cyrus's eyes rolled wildly as he gasped for his escaping breaths. For a brief second his dimming brown eyes locked with sharp blue ones that stared back with restrained emotion.

"Ev…elyn…" The name dragged painfully across Cyrus's lips as delirium claimed his final seconds of life. His mind was plunging into the past, when his wife's eyes—that same oceanic shade of blue—would drop away from his in fear or loathing or reticence.

Rowe broke from his father's gaze, and Cyrus choked on his last breath.

The room lay deathly still.

"Murder." Marcin was the first to speak. His piercing eyes shot directly to Drake. "Treason—no doubt facilitated by someone with a claim to the throne."

Drake stared back at him, struck speechless by the sudden accusation.

"That's ridiculous!" Ravyn snapped. "Drake doesn't—"

"Their arrival _is_ rather convenient," an advisor said, looking nervously between the dead king and the head advisor. Despite the council's close association with Cyrus, there was no love lost in his death. The only regret in his passing was the inconveniences that the suddenness of it left them with.

"He has a claim on the princess's hand," said another.

"I'm not a murderer," Drake said. "I haven't even come close to him."

But the urgency of the moment left little room for reason. The king was dead without a male heir, and this meant that Asher's future rested precariously with the decisions of the next few minutes.

"The princess must be wed immediately," Marcin said, above the murmured debates that had begun to unravel. "It will have to be someone who was close to the king, someone with noble blood."

"Someone on the council," said an advisor, naming the only position that fit those requirements.

Marcin nodded solemnly. They were playing into his plan even more cleanly than he had hoped. A few more well-placed words, and they would be eating out of his hands.

"Marcin, you've had the king's ear all these years," said one of the younger council members.

"That's true," Marcin said slowly. "But I couldn't possibly—"

"This is madness," Cedric snapped, sweeping a glare across the council members. "Can't you see that he is manipulating you all?"

Marcin scowled momentarily but regained his self-control before anyone noticed.

"Preposterous," he said evenly. "Sir Cedric, you have always been an antagonist in these proceedings. If I recall, you even blatantly contradicted the king. That is, before you ran off to throw in your lot with the Silvernian royals…"

"He must be part of this," someone said. The word _treason_ rippled through the members.

"Marcin, you're the only one who has never strayed from Asher's best interest," said one of the men. He was perhaps perceptive enough to see what Marcin was doing, but he was also clever enough to deduce that following the current would perhaps serve him better in the end. "We must call for the priest immediately."

Saria was on her knees beside her father's cooling corpse, trying to wrap her head around what had just transpired, but the man's words snapped her out of her reverie. She jumped to her feet.

"What? No!" she cried, glancing at Marcin with a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"It's the best thing for Asher, my dear," Marcin said, touching her shoulder.

Saria jerked away from his hand and backed straight into Rowe, who barely managed to steady her and keep them both from toppling to the ground.

"I won't consent," Saria said. "I refuse."

Every council member stared at her in silence. Marcin's wrinkled lips were curved in a bare smile, and Saria realized that it didn't matter whether she consented or not. It never had. Panic started tearing through her chest and throat.

"Will someone please _listen_ to me!" Julia cried at the top of her lungs. She had spent the past several minutes trying to get past the guard into the room, and then trying to convince Cedric to pay attention to her. Finally she had just decided to tell the council what she'd seen herself.

"Julia, not now—" Cedric started.

"Yes, now!" Julia interrupted. "I _saw _who poisoned the king. It was him." She pointed at Marcin.

A hush gripped the room as everyone looked confusedly between Marcin and his accuser.

"A child's imagination," Marcin said, a bit too hurriedly. "Will someone please escort—"

"In his vest pocket," Julia said quickly, before the guard could drag her out. "Some sort of powder in a leather pouch."

Marcin's shriveled face turned three shades of red.

"That is ridiculous," he said. "I nev—"

In one smooth motion, Rowe brushed past him and retrieved the pouch with a deft hand. He stopped in front of the window and dumped some of the powder in his palm. The dusky green color seemed to absorb the sunlight.

"That is a medicinal herb," Marcin said, unable to mask a hint of panic in his voice. "His majesty required it for his health."

"Medicinal, is it?" Rowe asked, with a mischievous glint in his eye. He turned and dusted the powder from his hand into one of the council member's wine glass. "Then you wouldn't mind having a drink to prove it."

Marcin stared wordlessly at the glass that was offered him. He made no move to accept it.

Shocked murmurs erupted among the council members. The word _treason_ began flying again, though this time with a different target.

"I've done this country a favor," Marcin spit out, when it became obvious that he wouldn't be able to talk himself out of this. "Cyrus was hardly more capable of being king than a child."

No one could disagree.

"You're a murderer," Saria said. The sight of Cyrus continued to make her head reel sickly. Perhaps he had never been a real father to her, but there was still something profane about all of this. Her father's dead body was lying on the floor, and everyone was worrying about affairs of state. She hated this world of politics, and she missed being free from it.

"I've done what was necessary," Marcin said stiffly.

"So you could usurp the throne," Drake pointed out immediately, and murmurs of agreement followed his words.

"Don't reproach me, boy. I've been toiling for Asher since before you were born," Marcin retorted. "Since before _Cyrus _was born. There is no one else better suited for the throne."

"You're a murderer," Saria repeated, because no one seemed to really recognize that point.

"As was your father," Marcin snapped, shooting her a glare. "Sir Darien was barely thirty-four when he hanged—still young."

Rowe stiffened. No one except Ravyn noticed.

"Sir Darien killed my mother," Saria said. "He…" She trailed off, because Marcin was chuckling coldly in a way that made her stomach turn. She swept a glance across the council. All of them were staring earnestly at their hands. Was that guilt in their features?

"Your mother cut her own wrists," Marcin said simply. "She killed herself."

"That's not true!" Saria cried vehemently. She looked helplessly at the council. For a long while, no one spoke.

"The king did not wish for the people to know—Queen Evelyn was so well-loved," one of them mumbled finally.

"I don't understand," Saria said, trembling. "You've been lying all this time?"

"Some things are best left in the dark," the man responded faintly.

"But that man—Sir Darien…" Saria bit her lip as the last pieces fell into place. "You let him hang for murdering her." Her accusatory gaze rounded the entire room.

"I'm afraid we let King Cyrus commit a lot of terrible deeds," Cedric said softly. "Too many."

"We?" Julia echoed in surprise, speaking up for the first time in a while. Cedric had only been on Cyrus's council for five years, and Queen Evelyn's murder was ten years ago.

Cedric's gaze remained locked on the floor. For a long moment, it seemed that he wasn't going to say anything at all. When he finally spoke, his voice was ragged, and he sounded much, much older.

"I discovered the Queen in her chambers. Darien and the prince had found her first. I _saw_ that she had taken her own life. I _knew_ that Darien was not to blame."

"And your silence bought you a seat of power on the council," Marcin said maliciously.

"It was never worth it," Cedric countered. "I've never been able to wash the blood from my hands."

"Yet you still remained silent—just like the rest of us." Marcin's grin was smug and vile.

"He's telling the truth now," Julia said, entwining her arm around her cousin's protectively.

"You still have to pay for Cyrus's murder," Cedric told him, seeming to gain strength from Julia's support.

"You're as guilty of murder as I am," Marcin snarled. "All of you—the moment we let that noose drop around Sir Darien's neck."

A heavy silence blanketed the room. The truth of his statement hit some harder than others.

"Regardless, we still have a duty to Asher," one of the councilmen said quietly. He glanced briefly at Cyrus's body. "If word of this gets out before we have a proper successor, there will be massive panic—which will turn into rioting, more likely than not."

"What can be done?" someone posed.

The man looked at Drake.

"A union between Silvern and Asher is still a viable option. Perhaps our only option."

"What are you suggesting?" Drake asked, though he knew very well what the man was suggesting, as did everyone in the room—except for Saria, who was still trying to figure out why politics was still the main concern when much heavier issues had just come to light.

"The marriage contract is still valid, though we are hardly in a position to force you to comply with it." The man glanced at his fellow council members. They all nodded in solemn agreement with the direction he was headed. He looked back to Drake. "Would you be willing to ignore Cyrus's…errors in judgment, and join in wedlock with the princess?"

"Excuse me?" Saria demanded. Everyone ignored her.

Drake hesitated. The councilman pushed forward quickly.

"Such a union would still be mutually beneficial, and it would especially aid Silvern. I understand that the poverty and unrest is worsening?"

It was an artful remark, for the mention of Silvern's condition immediately set Drake on edge. Ravyn looked at him worriedly. If his resolve on the King's Highway was any indication, he would accept the offer without a second thought.

But Drake didn't seem very resolved.

"I need to talk to Princess Saria first," he said. "Privately."

"Why?" the man asked, obviously not understanding what Saria had to do with this decision.

"There is an empty sitting room next door," Cedric told Drake.

Drake nodded and left the council room. Saria had no inclination to follow, but the stares fixed on her and the lack of a better option sent her hurrying after him. She stayed a few steps behind him until they reached the door to the sitting room. Without a word, Drake pushed open the door and gestured for her to enter first—the picture of gallantry and a testament to his lifetime of training in the art of it. Saria ducked her head and brushed past him.

She didn't turn to face him immediately. Instead, she stared out the bay windows for a few seconds, trying to gather composure from the scattered recesses of her mind. The sun was still glaring brilliantly, and faintly she could hear the sound of laughter in the courtyard. By all outside indication, today was a perfectly lovely day.

Finally she took a deep breath and turned around, making sure to hide her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. Drake stood with his back pressed against the closed door and his head bowed wearily, running both hands through his dark hair. Saria couldn't help but notice that his hands were shaking as well. She relaxed the slightest bit.

"I don't want to marry you," she said.

"I don't want to marry you either." He dropped his hands and looked at her.

"Well then, I'm glad we're in agreement. I suppose that's that."

Saria made a move for the door handle. Drake caught her wrist.

"It's not that simple," he said.

"Of course it is," Saria replied. She glared pointedly at his hand, and he released her.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "But this is the best thing for Asher _and_ Silvern. We have a duty to our countries—to our people."

"A duty to do what? Set up another greedy, self-serving king to ruin more people's lives?"

A hurt look flashed across Drake's face, and Saria checked herself.

"I didn't mean it like that," she said quietly, dropping her eyes from his. "You're not—"

"You're right," Drake said, and she looked up. "Maybe a monarchy isn't the best thing for the people."

"But if not a monarchy, then what?" she asked, confused. Her previous remark had come from her own personal disgust with the entire manner. She just didn't want a part in this world anymore, but she didn't think that any other sort of world was possible.

"I don't know." Drake thought for a moment, then said, "The Tevouins."

"The desert devils?" She frowned, even more confused.

"Tevouins," Drake corrected offhandedly. "They have a system of living that is…well, it works."

"But they're savages!"

Drake smiled.

"I don't know if the rumors or Rowe gave you that impression, but they're perfectly civilized." He thought about the actions—past and present—of Cyrus and his council. "Perhaps more civilized than the rest of us."

"So we should all move to the desert and live in tents?" She was honestly having trouble following his train of thought.

"Not quite. But perhaps if we altered the current system…I don't know. Maybe it could work."

"No king?" Saria was warming to the idea. No king meant no queen, which subsequently meant no marriage.

"No king," Drake affirmed. He seemed very unaffected by the notion, even though he was the closest person in both Asher and Silvern to the kingship.

"I wonder how they'll react to the idea," Saria said, nodding her head in the direction of the council chamber.

"Not amiably, I suspect."

"We could always threaten to lay claim to the throne long enough to behead them," Saria said, grinning mischievously.

Drake grinned as well and reached for the door handle. He paused.

"I'd like to apologize to you," he said, suddenly serious.

"Why?"

"Before you came and warned us about the knights, I was fully prepared to come here and fulfill the marriage contract." He hesitated, looking pained by his own words. "With or without your consent."

Saria watched him in silence as he continued nervously.

"It seemed like the only way to help Silvern, and I _had_ to help Silvern, no matter what. I—"

He broke off and thought about the people he had met who had similar mindsets—Orson of Cullum, holding a man captive because it meant saving his daughter; Owen and Grey, so blinded by the ideal of freedom that they were willing to sacrifice the lives of innocents; Emmett and Liza, caught up in a struggle for what was _right_, even if it meant murder.

"I've seen so many people doing the wrong thing for the right reason," he continued. "I should have recognized that I was doing the same."

Saria was drawn back by his deep sincerity, and she wasn't sure how to respond.

"You did the right thing in the end," she said finally. "That's what matters most."

Drake nodded slowly and issued a grateful smile.

"Thank you," he said quietly, pulling open the door.

Saria stepped into the cool corridor and felt unaccountably lighter. Regardless of what awaited them in the council chamber, she couldn't help but think that everything was going to be all right.


	53. Redemption

"_If we could ever look away from ourselves and our guilt-ridden torment, I think we would see that Redemption has been waiting all along." _

-_Avalyn, noted Tevouin philosopher_

The sixth day in the Month of the Phoenix found Saria curled up on her bed, reading a wrinkled, time-stained letter.

Actually, she wasn't sure if it was even her bed anymore. Everything was changing around her. Whether the change was for better or worse, she had yet to decide. It had been three weeks since Drake had proposed his idea to the council and two and a half weeks since they had grudgingly agreed to attempt the plan. Straightaway, messengers had been dispatched with the news to the larger towns in Asher and the castle in Silvern.

With the promise of amnesty, the seditionists in Silvern had agreed to step down peacefully. They had no further reason to resist, as Drake's unfolding plan was exactly what they had wanted from the beginning. Though wary at first, the people of Asher were enthused as well.

The monarchy was officially disbanded. In its place would be a system of representation very similar to the Tevouin system of captains and luminaries. It wasn't an immediate solution, and it was by no means a perfect one. Drake and the council members who wished to be of use, as well as the leaders of the Asherian towns and villages, had a long and trying task ahead of them. But there was hope on the horizon—a feeling that washed over Asher and Silvern like a flood and united all the citizens under the common purpose.

Saria wasn't really thinking about all of that, though. Her attention was fixated upon the aged letter in her hands that Sir Cedric had given her. "It is something that has been buried for too long," he had said. "Perhaps shedding light on it can bring us all one step closer to redemption."

_My ink runs low, and the sun has begun to rise. It won't be long, my love, before I gasp my final breath. Oh, that you would be my heaven. That is all I ask. And though I have given up most hope, I still believe that there is strength enough in your son to undo this treachery of his father's. You gave him that strength, my love, and though yours was stolen from you, perhaps his still remains. _

Saria set the letter down and closed her eyes, trying to understand the implications of Sir Darien's penned words. She vaguely remembered there being a big commotion after her mother's death. She remembered how Madam Porter had told her the news—flatly and without sympathy. Jackson had mourned with her, but there was someone else there, barely a hazy face in her memories. Her eldest brother, she assumed. Roland.

One day he was there, and the next he was not. "Gone," Madam Porter had replied shortly to her inquiry, pursing her lips together in displeasure. "Gone," Jackson had said, looking troubled and pulling her into a hug.

She couldn't remember who had first told her that he'd died of the Black Scourge—the same illness that had ravaged Jackson four years later. Perhaps she had never been told that at all. How much of her life had been built on lies and speculation?

"I shouldn't have run away."

The voice startled Saria so badly that she nearly screamed. She put a hand on her panicked heart and looked toward the source. She almost didn't recognize Rowe, for he was clean-shaven and in fresh clothes, though his light brown hair was still wildly disheveled, falling over his forehead and concealing the fading violet bruise.

He was just inside the door, leaning with his back against the wall, arms crossed, and head down. Saria couldn't tell if it was a stance of uncertainty or nonchalance. She hadn't heard him come in, and she could have sworn that she'd shut the door. Her thoughts must have been more isolating than she'd realized.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, once her voice returned to her.

"I should have spoken up at the trial, and I should have stopped the execution." His voice was low. "Maybe I couldn't have saved her, but I could have saved _him_. I could have saved Darien."

Saria glanced down at the letter in front of her.

_And though I have given up most hope, I still believe that there is strength enough in your son to undo this treachery of his father's._

It couldn't be.

Rowe looked up, as if reading her thoughts. Their eyes met. All at once the blue of his struck a chord in her heart. Jackson's eyes. Her mother's eyes.

"_My mother named me Roland."_

"I can't believe it," Saria whispered.

"I wish I hadn't let him die, but I don't regret not coming back," Rowe continued, gaining fire with his words. He took a step forward, and then a step back, as if he couldn't bring himself to approach her. He continued with considerable effort behind his words.

"I _wish_ that I could regret it, but I can't. I wouldn't trade my life with the Tevouins for anything." He lowered his eyes, and there was sorrow in his countenance. "Not even a life with you and Jackson. I'm sorry."

Saria stared wordlessly at him. Slowly, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. He didn't back away, but neither did he come closer. After ten years, two arms' length of empty air separated them.

Neither one moved.

"You should have told me earlier," she said. It was a pointless statement, trivial in the face of everything else that had to be said, but her mind supplied her with nothing else.

Rowe didn't say anything.

Saria's thoughts were in chaos. Should she be angry? Sad? Indignant?

There were a thousand different responses—and so many implications with what he had done ten years ago—with what he was telling her now—that Saria couldn't wrap her head around a single one. She couldn't even begin to find words.

Then suddenly the chaos cleared, and a single thought overtook her mind.

It didn't matter anymore.

She took two steps forward and thrust her arms around her brother.

"I don't care," she said firmly. "It's nice to see you again."

For a long moment, he didn't respond. He stood stiff and uncertain in her arms, because surely this wasn't right. She wasn't angry. There had to be something more.

But there wasn't.

He returned the embrace. They stood completely still for a very long time. Neither spoke, for there was nothing left to say.

Rowe let his long-carried guilt drop away piece by piece. Naima had told him once that redemption was not a reward to be won or a prize to be worked for, but rather a gift, there for the taking. You only had to accept it for yourself.

He had never told her about his past. A part of him wished that he had, though a part of him guessed that she had always known. A truth-seer—that's what the dragon had called her.

He imagined that she would be smiling right now, as always, and he found himself smiling as well. She had promised that everything would be all right, and for the first time since her death Rowe actually believed it.

* * *

"I can't hear this right now, Rae," Drake said irritably. He scooped a stack of parchments from the table and brushed past her into the corridor.

Ravyn frowned in frustration and chased after him.

"That's too bad," she said, falling in stride. "I'm telling you now, and you need to listen."

He didn't slow down.

She had just told him of her intentions to ride back to the Great Desert tomorrow.

Cyrus's knights had, of course, found nothing when they reached the desert, as the Tevouins had temporarily relocated to the Evering Wood, just south of the Silvernian mountains. A messenger from the castle had intercepted the Asherian general and told him the news of the monarchy's disbandment. The knights returned home, as did the Tevouins.

Danni, Kylie, and some others had ridden to the Asherian castle as a sign of good faith for the council. Though, after a few days of pleasantries, most were ready to return to the Great Desert. Since Rowe was going back with them, Danni had decided to stay for a while and represent Tevouin interest. The rest were leaving in the morning, and Ravyn wanted to go with them.

"It's just not a good idea," Drake said to her firmly. "You need to stay here, where it's safe."

Ravyn rolled her eyes.

"Drake, we have spent two months in one dangerous situation after another. We almost died more times than I can count! I'm pretty sure that the worst is over."

Drake didn't respond. Ravyn glanced sideways at him.

"Besides," she said lightly. "I'll have Rowe to protect me." She only said it because she knew he would react, and the sooner he started telling her his real concerns, the sooner they could work through them together.

Drake's face flushed slightly, and he stopped walking to face her.

"I love him," Ravyn said immediately.

Drake hesitated.

"I know," he said quietly.

"So you know why I have to go."

"But this is your life, Rae!"

"No, it's not," she said gently, putting her hand on his arm. "I found my place with the Tevouins. _You_ were meant for all of this, but I wasn't."

He broke from her gaze and looked down.

"I have to go," she repeated softly.

Drake closed his eyes, wondering for the hundredth time what had become of his little sister. She had disappeared, and someone else had taken her place. He missed her.

It was then that he realized, quite abruptly, that this _was_ his little sister. Ravyn had changed, grown, but she was still herself—not a problem to be fixed or a dilemma to be dealt with. Drake opened his eyes to look at her. She had definitely grown. Her youthful impetuousness had been replaced by a more mature understanding, though her spirit still sparked fire in her eyes.

"Just promise me that you'll be happy," Drake said resignedly.

Ravyn smiled and pulled him into a hug.

"I'll come and visit," she said. "I will."

"I'll hold you to that. Please be safe."

"Thank you, Drake." She laid her head on his shoulder. There was no way he could know what his blessing meant to her. The thought of being so far separated from him was painful and exhilarating all at once, but she knew it was what she was supposed to do. The Tevouins had a family to rebuild, and she knew that she was meant to be a part of it.

Unaccountably, she thought of Naima and had to smile. When the stress of their situation had threatened to tear her and Drake apart, Naima had always been there to hold them together with some word of archaic wisdom—and she had always been right.

Ravyn wished that she could tell Naima what it meant to her, but as a bare breeze brushed past her cheek—perhaps from the window or perhaps not—Ravyn couldn't help but think that she already knew.

* * *

On the last day in the Month of the Phoenix, Grey was released from the Asherian dungeons. He was led without words through the dark maze of his prison of almost twelve weeks. The brilliant blue of the sky over the open courtyard where executions were performed filled his eyes with uncontrollable tears. _Blue _was something he had forgotten in the darkness—blue and white and breeze and birdsong and lavenders, and now they rushed back to greet him like the memories of a life that he had left behind so long ago. Suddenly Lara was laughing again and cradling their infant son, and she was naming him Alden and saying, "Come here, my love," and for a moment Grey thought that he could, that he finally would.

Then the guards left him standing in the empty courtyard. There was no noose prepared on the gallows, and the gate stood wide open. Beyond, the radiant colors of the last days of spring were waiting, and the scent of lavenders had faded.

Freedom beckoned, and Grey's feet were rooted in place. His emergence from the dungeons had stripped him bare. Lara was gone from his memories. Alden was gone from his life. Silvern was nothing but a vague idea—something he had fought for once with a ferocity that had cost him everything that mattered. Now he was nothing.

Grey stumbled out of the courtyard and into the vivid green of Asher. His feet kept moving of their own accord, and he didn't have the strength to stop them. _South_, his mind said. South to his manor—_Lara's_ manor.

It was past midnight when he reached it. He was exhausted and covered in dust and sweat over a layer of dungeon grime. The servants who were awakened by the pounding on the door fell into a silent line as he walked into the hall. Their eyes were wide like they were seeing a ghost, and it occurred to Grey that this might not be his manor anymore.

No one stopped him, though, as his heavy steps took him to the parlor, where Lara used to embroider and play the pianoforte and sing like a nightingale and be so unbelievably _perfect _that just standing in the room made him want to weep. He collapsed on the floor in the corner, because Lara hated the furniture to get sullied.

Grey leaned his head against the wall and let the silent tears rush down his filthy cheeks. His new freedom was not a relief, but rather a more exquisite torture. His execution would have at least bore a semblance of justice. There had to be retribution for what he had done. Grey didn't think he could live with himself otherwise.

But the more he hated himself, the more the scent of lavenders would drift into his consciousness, and for a split second there was something past the hate and guilt—something sweet and tender and forgiving and _right_. Grey couldn't just couldn't seem to reach it.

The servants left him undisturbed, because all of this was so unprecedented that they didn't know what else to do. So in the morning, when Drake arrived, Grey was in the exact same position—slumped against the wall with pale streaks on his cheeks where the tears had streamed.

Drake paused in the doorway, stricken by the sight of the man so humbled. Grey was an unstoppable force of passion and vigor. Drake had always thought him to be undefeatable, and yet here he was. Utterly defeated.

Drake walked to him, put his back against the wall, and slid to the floor in silence. For almost ten minutes, they sat without speaking, side by side: once mentor and pupil, once father and son by every measure but blood.

"I thought I would be angry with you," Drake said plainly, when the silence became too much. "I thought I would hate you until the day I died, but I don't." He thought of Naima, laughing and chasing the breeze, never angry because it simply wasn't in her, because there simply wasn't time, because some things were more important.

He thought he could feel her sometimes, in the breeze or the sunshine or a child's laugh, but maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it was something else—Someone else.

_You can't put all your trust in me. I'm only human, remember?_

But she wasn't only human. She was something greater—a human so wrapped around her faith in the Blessed One, so _certain_ that she wasn't talking to empty air, that Drake found himself inclined to believe her, more in her death than her life. He remembered when they had found her, recumbent in the sand outside of camp. There was bile on her lips and the unmistakable pallor of death in her face, but she was smiling.

Of course she was smiling. Naima was always smiling. She had promised that everything would be all right. And it was, wasn't it?

Drake glanced at Grey, who had yet to speak. He looked hollow and ashen, even more dead than Naima had looked.

"I don't want you to forgive me," Grey said. His voice was thin like a string and hollow like his face. "I betrayed you and Ravyn. I betrayed your father. I betrayed my son."

His chin dropped, and he closed his eyes.

"I'm not worth the breath," he finished softly.

A part of Drake agreed with him. A part of Drake didn't even want to _be_ here. Though he hadn't been the cause, Grey had certainly enabled almost every calamity of the past months, starting with King Richard's murder. Perhaps they shouldn't have pardoned him. Perhaps they shouldn't have pardoned any of the seditionists. Maybe they all deserved the dungeons for the rest of their lives.

But then there was that feeling again—sunshine, laughter, and a gentle breeze—gathering in the back of his throat until it pushed the words right out of his mouth.

"I forgive you."

He looked at Grey. The once great general of Silvern was trembling, but then, so was Drake. He was shaking from his hands to his feet with this sudden burst of life that he had never felt before. He jumped up.

"I _forgive_ you."

Grey looked up slowly, and there, for a split second, Drake could see a hint of his former fire.

"I don't _want_ you to," Grey snapped.

"Because you'd rather wallow in self-pity than face the truth. You made mistakes, but now you have a chance to move on, to make things right."

Grey didn't respond. He lowered his head again.

"Stand up!" Drake cried, suddenly and inexplicably infuriated. He wasn't going to let it end like this. Too many lives had been lost already.

Grey jerked in surprise at Drake's outburst. Drake had always been the quiet one, more prone to negotiations than demands. After a few seconds, because he couldn't think of anything else to say or do, Grey stood up.

Drake relaxed considerably.

"Find your son," he said. "Tell him you're sorry and then go somewhere—anywhere. Just get away from here and figure out how you're going to forgive yourself. You can thank me later."

Grey just stared wordlessly. His head was heavy with lack of sleep and food, with guilt and pain and self-loathing and confusion. Everything was spinning around him in a maelstrom, and he felt like he was drowning, but Drake's words sounded so _right _that for a moment the world lay still.

Were those lavenders he smelled?

"I will," Grey said, with effort. The weight on his chest felt a bit more bearable, and his breathing began to steady.

Drake smiled.

* * *

On the fifteenth day in the Month of the Lyre, the _Audentia _cast anchor and docked at the Asherian port town. She was a fair-sized vessel with a sturdy crew and an amiable captain, who had no qualms with taking on the strange lad at Whistle Point—provided he could work his share. Alden was more than happy to oblige in exchange for his passage, and he adapted to the job with the same ease and spirit that permeated every part of his life. He was almost sorry to say goodbye as he descended the gangplank to rejoin the rest of world.

He didn't see Saria until she had tackled him in an embrace.

"You're all right!" she cried in delight.

"Not for long," Alden gasped, unable to breathe. Passing sailors chuckled and nudged each other pointedly.

Saria took a step back and surveyed him readily. Though it had been three months, he looked very much the same. She wasn't surprised—Alden had always been as steady as the seasons.

"You've changed," he told her, and then he remembered the reason for all of this. "I've got the herb, for your brother."

Saria bit her lip, and he knew immediately what she was going to say.

"Jackson passed before I even made it home," she said quietly. "A lot has changed since you've been gone."

Alden didn't know what to say.

"Are you angry?" Saria asked worriedly. "I'm so sorry—it was the only reason your stayed, and—"

"I'm not angry," Alden said quickly. "I wanted to stay a little longer."

"Runa," Saria voiced without inflection. She looked over his shoulder, as if she expected Runa to come trailing gracefully down the gangplank behind him.

"Suri died in her sleep last month. Runa is the village _dhari _now."

"I'm sorry," Saria said lightly, unable to judge his feelings on the matter.

"No, it's all right," he said with a slight smile. "It's what she wanted."

"Rhodry came along," Saria said, to change the subject.

"In the nearest tavern, I suspect?"

"Yes." She grinned. "We've been here for a few days, and he's done nothing but sit in there drinking water and winning at darts."

"I must say, I'm a little disappointed. I was hoping for a royal carriage and a troop of armed guards to escort us home."

Saria laughed.

"I told you that a lot has changed. There aren't any more _royal_ carriages."

"What?" Alden raised an eyebrow.

"I'll explain it all, I promise."

"Something tells me it will be an interesting story."

Saria just laughed again, because he had no idea how right he was.


	54. Infinite

_For Slipshod, who somehow managed to stick with me through it all and even toss out an irreverent poem or two to complete my allusions. Ragnarok. _

* * *

"_The thing about endings is that there are precious few. But beginnings? Those are infinite."_

_-The poet Ettne_

Saria waited somewhat impatiently in the small courtyard outside of Belefas manor. She and Alden had arrived three days earlier to much excitement in the household, mostly generated by his two old friends, Joss and Rebecca. They had alternated between joy at his return and reprimand for not contacting them earlier about his whereabouts. Apparently the general rumors had pronounced him dead.

From their jumbled babbling, Saria gathered that the date for a nearby town fair was approaching, and he was required to go in order to make up for missing the last one. The two were friendly to her, but she felt out of place amongst such longtime friends.

Though, nothing was as awkward as the moment when Alden's father first entered the room. The tension had been almost tangible, and she, Joss, and Rebecca had left immediately. Joss had listened shamelessly at the door, much to Rebecca's chagrin, though it would have been impossible to _not_ hear what was going on.

Grey's voice was muffled and soft. In turn, Alden's angry shouting made the eavesdroppers wince. The door handle turned, and Joss jumped backwards. Grey said something else, and Alden apparently changed his mind about leaving. There was more shouting, and then it died down.

Despite herself, Saria strained to listen. She thought she could hear a name—Lara. Then for a long while, there were no voices at all. The three outside the door exchanged a glance, and in a moment of silent and mutual understanding they crept away.

Saria hadn't asked Alden what exactly was said behind the closed door, but she could see plainly enough that he and Grey had found some sort of common ground, for the tension between father and son had dissipated completely.

Right now she was waiting for him to see her off like he'd promised. She had decided that it was time to return to the castle, for however brief a visit. It simply wasn't home anymore, and she knew she wouldn't stay there for long. The freedom of travel was becoming an indispensable part of her nature. She _was_ curious to see how things in the political sphere were progressing, though.

Alden stumbled out the front door, shouting playfully over his shoulder at Joss to go do something useful other than tormenting Rebecca.

Saria suddenly felt dry-mouthed and nervous about what she had been planning to say all night and morning. Alden didn't seem to notice.

"You know, you're welcome to stay longer," he told her, grinning and glancing over his shoulder. Rebecca's voice carried from inside as she shrieked a threat at Joss, and Saria realized that most of Alden's attention still rested with them.

"I think I need to go," she said, fidgeting nervously with the end of her braid.

"I'll miss you. You'll have to visit soon."

Inwardly, Saria felt frustrated. This was not how she had wanted this conversation to progress.

"Actually, I thought that…maybe, you would want to come with me." The last few words came out rushed and barely coherent. She bit her lip.

Alden looked her in the eye, and she could tell that she had gotten his undivided attention. His brow creased slightly.

"Saria, I…" he trailed off and scratched the back of his head uneasily. "I never wanted to give you the wrong impression."

Saria caught her breath.

"How do you mean?" she asked, carefully guarding her voice.

"I don't think it's meant to be."

He saw the confusion and hurt flash briefly across her features, and he spoke again quickly.

"I like you, Saria. As friends we couldn't have made a better match."

"Friends?" she echoed faintly.

"I'll admit—there was a moment or two when I thought we could be more than that, but it could never work."

"How do you know?"

"I think we like the _idea_ of each other more than anything. You needed a dashing hero—" He winked. "—and I needed a damsel in distress. But we're more than that, and you know it. What happens when I'm tired of being the hero? Or when you grow out of being a distressed damsel?"

Saria stared at him in silence, trying to sort through what exactly he was saying to her, as well as her own feelings.

Alden continued.

"We _were_ a match, Saria—when we needed each other. Now we don't, and we aren't."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Life never does, but you know it's the truth."

Saria thought about it for a moment and realized that, somehow, he was right. She was growing, changing, every day—both of them were. Now wasn't the time to pursue such a heavy decision. Besides, after three such tumultuous months of separation, she couldn't know him as well as she did before. He was right—it was the idea of him that she had grown so attached to.

She relaxed slightly.

"Well, since you have all the answers, what do we do now?" she asked.

"I'm going to a town fair—a nice, normal town fair. You can join us if you'd like."

She almost said yes, but then thought about it. She didn't want to go to a town fair, not really. For the first time in her life, she was free to do exactly what she wanted. There were infinite possibilities, and she suddenly didn't want to waste another second ignoring them.

"I think I'll go to the Great Desert. I'd like to visit my brother and see the Tevouin camp for myself."

Alden smiled.

"Good for you."

"Until we meet again?" Saria swept her grandest curtsy—the last she was ever planning on performing.

Alden's smile widened, and he matched her with a perfect bow.

"I await the day, milady."

"And who knows, perhaps when I am no longer the damsel, and you are no longer the hero, then we shall be a match once more."

"Anything is possible, and I've seen enough in the past months to say that with the utmost confidence."

"Have fun at the fair."

"Have fun in the desert."

And they parted ways.

* * *

Sunset painted the desert sky with a myriad of pastels, which ranged from the fiercest orange to the richest purples to the faintest pinks. Rowe lay on the sandy incline outside of camp, supposedly keeping watch, though there was really very little danger to watch for these days. Ravyn lay beside him, staring intently at the sky and trying to find the first visible stars. They hadn't spoken for over an hour, and the sounds of the preparations for the common meal filled the air behind them.

"Do you want to get married?" Rowe asked, quite offhandedly.

"No," Ravyn said.

"Oh…" There was a hint of confusion in his voice, and he shifted slightly in the sand. "Me neither."

Ravyn smiled.

"I was joking," she said pointedly.

"Oh." He rolled immediately onto his side to face her. "Good. When?"

"This is not very romantic," Ravyn said, raising an eyebrow at him.

His eyes sparked with amusement.

"Should I recite a poem or something? I know a doggerel entitled 'The Thrice Cursed Frog of Terish.'"

"I'm not sure that would help the situation."

"Once a frog in Terish dwelt. The deepest sorrow had he felt."

"Rowe…"

"For once he'd been a mighty lord—"

"Rowe!"

"What?"

"I want an autumn wedding." She thought for a moment. "A Tevouin wedding."

"We'll have to make you a Tevouin first."

"Does it involve drinking the blood of virgins under a crescent moon?"

"Something like that." He chuckled.

"We have to send word to Drake."

"Do we _have_ to invite him?"

"Only if you really want to get married."

"I guess that leaves me no choice," he said resignedly.

Ravyn smiled faintly and slipped her hand into his. They lay in silence for another few minutes, and then Rowe began to speak again.

"For once he'd been a mighty lord, and then a maiden cursed his sword…"

Ravyn giggled, and Rowe kept reciting, skipping some parts that he couldn't remember and making up the rest. Overhead, the stars broke through the veil of dusk with unmatched brilliance. Ravyn sighed happily, and—though she was listening more to his voice than the words—she let the completely ill-fitting poem carry her to a level of contentment that she had never known before.


	55. Epilogue

_For Billi, who has inexplicably stuck with me through the completion of this inexplicably long tale, which has brought my various and sundry grammatical anomalies to the surface for her to scrutinize with a professionalism and awesomeness that is entirely--shall I say it? Inexplicable. You are by far the best beta to ever grace the internet with her presence, and the position will remain forever open to you in stories to come. P.S. Mr. Fluffles thinks you're the berries._

* * *

It was an ordinary day in the small town of Dunn's hill. It was the second day in the Month of the Fox, and everything was quiet.

Tomorrow they would try to burn a witch, who would escape in a rather extraordinary way. The day after tomorrow, they would celebrate the marriage of Princess Saria and Prince Drake of Silvern. Soon after, they would receive news that the wedding had been cut short by King Richard's untimely death. About a week later, the Princess of Silvern would show up in their humble town, followed shortly by her brother and the former general of Silvern. News of the Prince and Princess's murder would circulate for several months, as well as the news that Princess Saria had either run away or been kidnapped.

In the Month of the Lilac, two thousand soldiers would march across the countryside toward the Great Desert, and in the Month of the Phoenix, those knights would return without having shed any blood. Rumors that Saria had come back and that the Silvernian royals weren't really dead would pass from mouth to ear for several days, and finally the messengers would come on horseback with the news that the monarchy was going to be replaced by a system in which the common citizens would have a say. The Month of the Lyre would be marked with unparalleled celebration, and it would go down in history as the first month of freedom.

Of course, on the second day in the Month of the Fox, no one in the small town of Dunn's Hill could know this.

Outside the town, the Tevouin that they would try to burn as a witch tomorrow was dancing with the breeze and chatting with empty air. Her brown locks blew freely across her smiling face, and her bare, sun-browned feet were silent on the grass. There was no rhythm to her dance and no pattern to her motion. She simply spun and leapt with the sunlight, laughing as the breeze caressed her skin and whispered in her ear.

"Don't be ridiculous!" she cried out gaily, finally collapsing in a heap of giggles. "I've never met anyone royal in my life, and I certainly don't plan to."

She laid her head back, letting her hair spill wildly across the grass. For a few moments, she nodded thoughtfully, listening to the breeze.

"Honestly, darlings, there is no need to be so _morbid_ about it," she said finally, and the wind picked up around her.

"Of course, I understand!" She sat up. "But it will all work out in the end."

A gray cat bounded across the grassy knoll and curled up noiselessly in her lap. His amber eyes stared at her for a long moment, somehow speaking volumes without making a sound. She scratched the velveteen fur behind his ear and smiled gently.

"Well, I think that is a lovely idea. The princess will certainly need some encouragement."

The cat meowed—a peculiar, raspy croak. She laughed.

"It will be quite the adventure." She shooed the cat off her lap and climbed to her feet. "I think I'll visit Dunn's Hill. The miller's wife is such a dear, and her children are darlings."

The cat mewed in a way that could be termed wary.

"Nonsense," she said, as she stretched her arms above her head. "Inquisitor Duffin is just a bit high-strung, that's all. He means well."

The cat didn't respond.

Naima laughed again and set off for Dunn's Hill and her future, humming a familiar nameless tune as she went.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** _

_And so we end, by going back to the beginning. _

_Keep an eye out for some supplements of Arranged that I will be posting soon_, _as well as my next story, which will hopefully be posted sometime in the near future. _

_God bless you all._

_^Captain_

_P.S. _

_Senora Eva, If I had a dollar for every time you've encouraged me throughout this story, I would have my mounting college loans paid ten times over. That's how awesome you are. Thanks for keeping me honest!  
_


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